


Unsettled

by lettalady



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[Tom]</p></blockquote>





	1. Betrayed

Every once in a while the memory overwhelms you again.You’ve worked hard to push it away – push it all away – but the memory always finds a way around whatever barricade you establish. This time it was triggered by the brown paper shopping bag, the weight and the rustling noise taking you back, against your will.

_“Tom? Hey I was thinking lasagna for dinner? If you didn’t have something similar for lun—-“ You hadn’t expected him to be home, but it is a pleasant surprise. The pair of you can do something you haven’t done in ages – actually prepare and sit down for a meal together. For once your schedules don’t conflict. But you hadn’t been able to finish the prompt for the sound of unfamiliar bumpings, of voices, stalling your words._

_“Shit. Fuck.”_

_That voice you recognize. That’s Tom._

_“What? Who is that?”_

_That voice you don’t._

_You tilt your head to the side, forgoing your path to the kitchen in favor of walking towards the voices. You **know**  what you’re about to walk into, but you can’t seem to force yourself to move in any other direction._

_“Fuck fuck bollocks shit fuck.”_

_Tom again, the long streak of curses still going strong. Is that muffled giggling you hear under his cursing? Then you turn the corner, nearly slamming into him as he’s trying to hurry out to meet you – to greet you. He’s still buttoning up his pants, his shirt clearly only just thrown on – the hem uneven and the damned thing on inside out, besides._

_You only look at him for a second before looking past him. At her._

Nausea comes next, usually. Mixed with the overwhelming urge to scream, despite the years that have passed. Tom cheated. Tom cheated on you. Tom, who swore he’d love you forever. Tom, whose immense talent it took you ages to be able to enjoy once more. Even his voiceover work had proved problematic for a while.

_“Wait.” Tom’s first word spoken that isn’t a curse. He has the nerve to reach out and touch you with the same hands that had just moments prior been all over her. Doing God knows what to **her**. You flinch backwards, pulling yourself away from him. “Wait. Please.”_

_“Excuse me?” The nausea has momentarily passed, enough for you to gulp a breath and allow the anger to flow. “What, do you want me to watch? Join in?” You reel your attention around to the other woman, the woman flushed and taking her sweet fucking time clothing herself while standing in the middle of your damned bedroom. “By all means, take your time. He’ll be free to resume in a minute.”_

_She doesn’t engage you, just continues collecting her things from where they’ve been scattered._

_Tom follows you towards the door. He doesn’t try to touch you again, too busy trying to tuck himself back into his clothes. You still have your purse, and the shopping bag from your errands, clutched in your hands. You couldn’t drop either of them now if you’d tried, your body entirely too tense to do anything but shout, and walk out the door._

_“Please stop. Please can we talk about this?”_

_“Talk? Oh you irresponsible…. selfish…. prat!” If you thought you could let go of the bag in your hands you might throw it at him, loose the contents of it at his head._

_“Babe. Shhh.”_

_It’s laughable. He wants you to keep your voice down. For what? Fear that she’ll hear this final battle between the pair of you? **That’s** what he’s worried about? “Don’t you fucking dare tell me to shhh you, you bastard!”_

_“Babe.”_

_“Shut up Tom. Shut up. Shut up. What – did you just fall into her? Your dick just slipped out of your pants all on its own and… Oh GOD you – how dare you even – I moved here for you! FUCK YOU Hiddleston.” Your hand reaching the door, the cold metal of the doorknob sends another wave of fury through you, followed quickly by nausea again. Now you’re able to launch the bag and its contents at him. You don’t manage anywhere near his head. Honestly you don’t even pay attention to where it hits – presumably somewhere near his abdomen judging from the arc. You don’t wait to see him pull the items from the bag. You just storm out the door and don’t look back._

Fuck you Hiddleston. Perfect last words – and they had been just that, at least until you’d been calm enough to take his calls without merely repeating the three words and hanging up on him. He apologized over and over and over again – in every method he could think of. After each apology you told him the same thing:

No amount of sorrys would ever bring you back.

But you owed him an explanation for the bag you threw at him. And the contents within.

Yes, they meant what he thought. No, it didn’t change a thing between you. The pair of you would figure it out. You even tried to include him for certain momentous events. Photos of the battle between the pair of you following the first ultrasound still circulate. Tom, his face twisted in a mixture of anger, frustration, and pain – you holding your arms out, your hands held at sharp angles – both caught mid-argument forevermore.


	2. Battle Lines

The thing that helped the most regarding your ability to tolerate the presence of Tom? His son. The miniature version of the man you used to think the world of. The man who you just can’t bring yourself to forgive.

It doesn’t stop him from asking. Asking for forgiveness every damned chance he got. Not only that, but asking to be allowed to attend parenting classes with you – that got him a  _FUCK NO_ in reply. It wasn’t like he was going to be the one undergoing the birthing process.

_“Stock up on parenting books, if you want. You’re not attending the classes with me.”_

_“This is – you’re being impossible. We agreed that we would both be in –“ he looks down at your swelling form. You only have to endure his presence a few minutes more, and then you’ll be free of him until the next appointment. “—the child’s life. I need to be prepared, too.”_

_You don’t yet know the gender of the little being that you’re carrying inside you. Tom keeps waffling back and forth between wanting to know and not wanting to know. The forever-angry-at-him part of you wants to learn the gender soon so you can tell him, not caring a thing for his waffling back and forth._

_“I’m being impossible? I’m being….” You’re about **this**   **close**  to telling him he can forget it, that you don’t want his philandering ass anywhere near your child. You bite down on your anger, resorting to the silent treatment._

_If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all._

_Surely the pair of you can manage one prenatal session without it spiraling into yet another argument. Surely, just one._

_Tom, ever bullheaded when he wants to be, won’t let it go. “Someone needs to go with you. To be there with you.”_

_You keep your eyes straight ahead. You’d glare a hole through the metal doors of the lift, if you could. “That’s for me to figure out. Just so long as it isn’t you everything will be just dandy.”_

_“Oh that’s a great attitude. You realize I’m his – her – I’m the father! I have rights!”_

_“Please. **Please**  push the issue.” You’re watching his reflection in the metal doors. The result of the confined space is that he can’t pace to let out this frustration you’re amplifying. Right now he’s just about pulling his hair out, the long curls a complete mess from his repeated tugs. “You’re not going to be in the room when it’s time, anyway.”_

_He’s sputtering even worse than before. “Now. Now wait one minute.”_

_The elevator doors ding open to reveal the lobby and you walk out, leaving Tom to shake himself into motion. If he doesn’t hurry he’ll end up going right back up. You almost wish the shock would render him immobile. It would allow you to get to your car in peace._

_“You can’t just make that decision.”_

_“Uh – yes I can.”_

_“What the fuck did I d—-“_

_You stop, not caring that the pair of you are in the middle of the lobby floor with onlookers peering over their newspapers, phones, and the like to watch the pregnant woman shout at the tall gorgeous man, “Think **very**  carefully before you finish that sentence, Hiddleston.”_

_"How the fuck long are you going to punish me for that?! I don’t know how many times I can apologize."_

_"Good! Stop! I’m tired of hearing it!" Oh goody, snapshots are being taken. You can add them to your collection. _And because it is the way between the pair of you now, you add another sniped comment, “Or maybe just go fuck someone else. Go with them to all their…”__

_“ **I. Don’t. Want. To**. Christ! Can we not do this here? Not again.”  _

It never worked. The pair of you always ended up arguing and leaving each other fuming. Even after Max was born — and you were true to your word. You were saved from formally being the bad guy for not wanting Tom in the room. The hospital refused to allow him in, despite the fact that he rushed over to the hospital upon hearing you were in labor and from what you heard threw a spectacular tantrum in the hallways. 

He’d calmed himself by the time you saw him, and you were too exhausted to hurl any verbal barbs at him. But now, as was practice, the peace between the pair of you didn’t last long. 


	3. Barricaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tom]

It’s a thin line between love and hate.

That’s how the line goes, in the song by The Persuaders. His actions had forced her across the line – and she was determined never to cross back again.

Holidays and birthdays were particularly difficult – not necessarily his own, or hers – but those held for Max. They were substantially less painful, or at least the wounds dealt were easier to manage in his opinion, once they figured out how to better coordinate – to avoid such things as the year one disaster.

No, the things that hurt the most and dealt the most damage between them ended up being the things that neither parent could predict. The things that happened once and then the miracle of the moment was gone.

_“He said Dada today!” He announces, triumphant. It was the first ‘first’ he could claim, that was truly his. He shifts Max in his arms to initiate the handoff, allowing his fingers to linger just a bit over her skin as she accepts their son into her arms. She doesn’t like it, flashing him a frown, so he quickly refocuses._

_“Sure….” She doesn’t believe him._

_“He did!” Tom insists. “Bet I can get him to do it again….”_

_It shouldn’t irk him so much that she is doubtful, but damnit – Max said something more than indistinguishable coos and babble. He squats, folding himself down a bit to settle and stare into those tiny eyes that are currently focused on the polka-dot print of his mum’s dress._

_He makes a series of goofy faces to attract Max’s attention before speaking to him, “Come on Maximilian, my little man. Say Dada again. Prove to your mum that you can.”_

_He can feel her watching him and despite knowing better, looks to return her gaze. He can’t help it. Still. He wants to give her a warm smile, but he knows the look he would receive in return. Better to keep the focus on Max._

_“Say Dada! Dada!”_

_“Now you’re just leading him into it.”_

_Tom straightens, now indignant. Max had said Dada! He had set Max down in his playpen so that he could dash over and check on something and the moment he had started to take a step away: out came the words. “Oh, like you didn’t do everything in your power to ensure that he learnt to sit up **and** crawl while on your watch.”_

_She is balancing Max on her hip, absently letting him play with her fingers. “Max did that all on his own.” When she looks away from him, down to look at their son, the tender smile he so desires comes out. Why can’t she look at him like that anymore?_

_No – no he knows the answer to that._

_He can tell the exact moment now, always the precise moment that the memory occurs to her. They’ll be getting on, mildly better at any rate, and then her face changes. Sometimes he has enough sense to make himself scarce, sometimes he chooses to stay and re-live the pain right along with her._

_She’s still gazing lovingly at Max, tickling him now to elicit bubbled laughter from their pink-cheeked son. “Did it all on your own, didn’t you baby?”_

_He blames his previous line of thought for the next thing to tumble out of his mouth. “Likely story. Could’ve at least **warned**  me he was mobile.”_

_And of course, in response to his tone, she bites back with equal vehemence. “You’re such a brilliant man. You figured it out.”_

_They’re arguing again. Not ten minutes of exposure and back to arguing. It was the thought of what sent them down this path that had done them in, yet again. Whenever one succumbed to the memory, the other always followed. “Sure! After having a heart attack!”_

_She’s bopping to an unheard rhythm, keeping Max entertained while she glares at his father, at him. “Maybe you should keep a better eye on your son.”_

_Tom glowers, “Maybe his Mum should—-“_

_“DA!”_

_Both of them stop, turning to look at Max who has one hand clutching the fabric of his mother’s dress, one hand stretched out – fingers splayed widely. Tom points, unable to contain his absolute glee. It’ll only make matters worse but he can’t help but rub it in._

**_Finally_ ** _! A first that is all his!_

_“See!”_

_She’s got her eyebrows knit together, looking down at Max with wonder and a hint of frustration. Tom can see her internal conflict as though she were muttering the thoughts aloud. She’s excited, thrilled to hear the start of what will surely be a very well-spoken child, if Tom has anything to do with it – but also annoyed that Max said something akin to daddy._

_Max has always seemingly clung to her – preferred her. Is this the start of a new phase? As she looks up Tom watches closely to see if he can just once catch the tail end of a loving look from her again. She’s too busy examining Max’s motions to notice, then looking in the direction that Max seems to be indicating, “He’s – he’s looking at the car, Tom.”_

_“I was just standing there. And anyway, that’s **my**  car.”_

_Fuck. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck. She can’t even give him this one thing. One single first._

_She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at his insistence. Her excitement has waned. “Did you even read the parenting books? Babies tend to master the da sound faster because of the development of their jaw muscles.”_

_“Yes! But he said Dada!” He’s following her towards the house now. Their time is waning. Once she hits the stoop she is out-of-bounds. “Look if he said Mama first I’d still be thrilled but – for fuck’s sake –”_

_“Language, Hiddleston!”_

_He stops where he is on the sidewalk, standing firm with the diaper bag dangling from his shoulder. “Max said Dada. That’s what happened. Simple as that.”_

_She rounds on him, still trying to keep the baby entertained while giving Tom the best death glare she can muster. Damn the woman can multitask. She grabs the diaper bag from him and walks up the stairs to go inside. “Whatever. He’ll be ready to go at 10. Don’t be late.”_

_He almost shouts after her: When the fuck am I ever late? But she’s already on the stoop, two more steps and she’s inside. The stoop rule, it has saved him more times than he can count._


	4. Bare

Maximilian James Hiddleston developed quickly, becoming a man of many talents. He excelled in the arts – no big surprise there – and had an ear for song and languages. But all those achievements came later.

His natural talent as a child lay in mischievousness. And tantrums. Oh the tantrums.The thing most memorable about the terrible twos were not the tantrums — however — but something that had occurred, the result of a tantrum of epic proportions:

An admission that opened the door for healing.

_It’s approachingmidnight when you pause the movie, something unheard of – the result of too much wine. But it is your night to treat yourself, since Tom has Max, so you refuse to feel anything but contentment regarding drinking the rest of the bottle. Snuggling back down onto the sofa with your blanket you see the screen of your phone dimming before going black once more._

_You’ve missed some sort of notification. Several, actually. All from Tom. The last of which reads:_

_»Please pick up when I call. Please. **Please.** «_

_And you’ve missed the phone call for being in the other room._

_The pair of you don’t call one another. You usually communicate by text, unless it is important. Mommy Mode immediately activates, regardless of the wine in your system. You don’t bother listening to the message or the other few texts, you just dial his number and wait for him to answer. One ring. What could be wrong? Two. Did something happen? Three._

_When Tom answers you don’t have to ask, you hear the reason for the middle-of-the-night break in tradition. Max is crying, not just crying but screaming._

_“Oh thank God.” Tom sighs out. You can barely hear him over the wails of your son._

_“Tom? What’s going on?” You stand and sway on your feet a bit. You’re in no condition to go anywhere. If Max is hurt you’ll have to call a cab and meet them –_

_“He’s in a mood. I’ve tried everything. He won’t go to sleep.”_

_Your panic abates. These aren’t cries of pain – this is a full on tantrum. You’ll be able to sink back down onto the couch in a moment, after your heart stops beating at such a pace. “Oh. Oh.” You look at the clock again, double checking the time. “You’re just trying to get him to sleep now?”_

_“No. We’ve been at it awhile.” Tom’s deadpan delivery is a clear indication he is annoyed by your question. Exhausted and annoyed. If he’s been dealing with a tantrum of this level since Max’s usual bedtime, it is no wonder._

_“You tucked him in? Read The Book?” You press your free hand to your face, trying to think while dealing with the unusual mix of adrenaline spike and alcohol. If Tom had had a long day and tried to skip the book, it would certainly explain a tantrum._

_A tantrum still going strong. Hard to stop a two year old once he gets started. Particularly this two year old. Tom’s reply is almost lost in a long screeching wail, “Yes. Of course.” Then, to Max he says, “I know Max. I know. Shhhhh.”_

_Tucking a foot beneath you, you settle back onto the sofa. Oh the joys of parenting. “Well. He’ll wear out eventually….” It’s not really a useful suggestion. You feel a pang of guilt. The noise level hasn’t lowered a notch since you answered. At least you have the benefit of holding the phone away from your ear. “Um, have you tried singing to him?”_

_“That’s your thing.” Tom points out._

_Right. “Put me on speaker.” You wait until you hear Tom’s prompt and Max’s wail seemingly increase in volume and then you start to sing:_

 

♫ I see the moon, the moon sees me.  
Shining through the leaves of the old oak tree.  
Oh, let the light that shines on me -  
Shine on the ones I love. ♫

♫ Over the mountain, over the sea.  
Back where my heart is longing to be.  
Oh, let the light that shines on me -  
Shine on the ones I love. ♫

♫ I hear the lark, the lark hears me.  
Singing from the leaves of the old oak tree.  
Oh, let the lark that sings to me -  
Sing to the ones I love. ♫

♫ Over the mountains, over the sea.  
Back where my heart is longing to be.  
Oh, let the lark that sings to me -  
Sing to the ones I love. ♫  
  


_After you finish the last stanza there is a pause before you hear Tom murmuring softly. The strain that you’d heard when he first answered his phone is gone from his voice. It seems your singing has mostly soothed the nerves of both father and son. “Nearly… C’mon little man, go to sleep.”_

_“Damn,” you mutter while you listen closely to the sounds coming through from the other end. Max is whimpering now, occasionally pausing to say his favorite word: **no**. “Usually works better than that… Why do the pair of you sound so…?”  _

_Tom exhales a long breath. “Driving. First thing I tried after he wouldn’t go down: the car-seat trick.”_

_Another something that usually works. Throw Max in a car-seat and he’s usually out before you can make a trip around the block. When Max was younger Tom had even discovered that putting the car-seat on the dryer and letting the spin cycle rumble the unit slightly worked just as well. Evidently Max has grown wise to the trick._

_Tom really has tried everything. You keep Tom talking, hoping that the low timbre of his voice will help to finally guide your up-well-past-his-bedtime son to the dream-world he so clearly needs. “Sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. Might have saved you some gas.”_

_You hadn’t meant it as a barb, but still it had almost come across that way. At least Tom is too weary from dealing with a screaming two year old that he doesn’t put much effort in responding in kind. “That’s…. not a concern.”_

_With the worst of the tantrum past you’re not sure what else needs to be said. You should hang up the phone, but – perhaps because of the wine, or the singing – you stay on the line. “Be ok now?”_

_“Hope so.” There’s a hitch to his breath as he starts to speak and then reroutes. “Thanks.”_

_You adjust how your blanket is laying pooled around your legs. You’ve settled on top of it and will need to readjust before starting the movie up again. After this phone call. “Do you know what set him off?”_

_Another heaved sigh comes over the line. How long has Tom been awake? He’s hopefully headed home at this point, to put Max to bed and fall into bed himself. “Sheets. Not the same as the ones there, apparently.”_

_“That’s easy enough to fix. I have an extra set. You close enough to stop by?” That was the wine. It was a stupid suggestion that was purely the wine. And wanting to make sure Max wouldn’t start up again as soon as he and Tom made it home. But mostly the wine._

_Tom’s reply comes quickly. “We’ll be there in five.”_

_Five minutes. He’d been close. It’s just enough time to have the extra set of sheets in hand, ready and waiting behind the safety of the door, when Tom pulls up out front. You’re out the door, down the steps and on the sidewalk as he steps out of the car. Even in the moonlight you can see the weight of how tired he is from the way he holds his shoulders._

_He catches you looking towards the backseat and nods. Max is asleep. Finally. “As we turned onto the drive…”_

_“Do you want to just put him to bed here?” You motion behind you towards the house. The light from within the house just barely illuminates Tom’s face. He is looking past you at the house, mouth held close in a neutral line. You continue, just to fill the silence. “His bed, this bed, is closer.”_

_You’re almost positive Tom is going to start arguing with you over the agreed upon splitting of time between the two houses. But he called you for help. And then you’d invited him over. Now inviting him in._

_In the darkness it is hard to tell exactly what emotion he is projecting. It isn’t a fair trade, asking him to give up his night with Max in exchange for linens. You nod, accepting his lack of response as a **no** , and hold out the bed sheets towards him, keeping the stack flat by pressing your palm down over the top as well. “Nevermind.”_

_Tom finally breaks his silence as he accepts the sheets from you. “No. No, it’s just. Are you sure? It would mean breaking the stoop rule. Several other rules too, actually.”_

_“I’m not saying throw out the rules, Tom. Do you want to come in and not have to worry about enduring another tantrum tonight or no?”_

_He turns and walks back towards the car. As he rounds the vehicle’s bumper you chalk the night up to another encounter ending in a fight. Then he bypasses the driver’s door to open the door to the backseat, toss the linens in, and then gently extract Max from the car-seat. You’re left blinking at the scene illuminated by the light from within the car, watching as Tom shuts the door with as much care as possible and makes his way back to the sidewalk – to you. “Well?” He asks, one arm supporting the dead weight of your sleeping son, his unimpeded hand splayed across the tiny back to keep Max steady against his shoulder, “Lead on.”_

_You should have used Tom’s estimated five minutes of transit time to clear away the wine glass and bottle. Or organize the living room a bit more. Really, you shouldn’t have invited him in. Reasons abound as to why the pair of you only enter the other’s dwelling upon request, even then only at particular momentous occasions._

_After settling Max into his room the pair of you venture out into the living room. You note Tom’s gaze drift towards the half empty wine bottle and wait for a comment. To your surprise it doesn’t come. He continues to survey the room, “You’ve redecorated.”_

_It’s been nearly a year since the year one disaster and still he remembers enough to point it out. You very much doubt you could say the same, regarding his place. Not that his tastes have changed all that much. Or maybe they have? You’re standing here opposite a man whose expressions seem both familiar and foreign._

_This is Tom. The man you had given your heart to. The man who had fathered your child. The man who had blindsided you – who had shattered the thing he had been trusted with… Tom, née your-Tom – now a stranger to you. The question that tends to surface in unguarded moments bubbles up again: Why? What had driven him into her arms? Why did it turn out this way?_

_“Tom?” Upon hearing your soft utterance of his name his eyes swing to meet yours. You finally ask him the thing that has haunted you ever since **that day**. “Why did you do it? What did I do wrong?”_

_Tom takes a breath and changes into the man you recognize: The angry man, calluses built from weathering your ire. The man fully immersed in pain. “You’ve been drinking.”_

_Ah – so he isn’t above mentioning the wine._

_He shakes his head sharply, “And besides – you don’t actually think that you’re to blame. Don’t shake your head at me, you don’t. You’ve spent three years proving it to me. This is just another way to punish me, isn’t it?” He continues, growing more agitated by your silence. “ **I**  did this….  **I**  did this to us. I made a  **mistake**. I was – I was…. I wasn’t thinking. At least, not about consequences. It was a desire for instant gratification. Wanting to feel something different. Something new. It was a cry for attention – from a man who didn’t know… who couldn’t begin to fathom everything he was throwing away.”_

_It’s a truth from Tom that steals your breath. In all the arguments since that day the pair of you haven’t made such progress as these few minutes standing in your living room. “But, Tom.” You manage, when you’re finally able, “You had my attention.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The lullaby within is: I See The Moon (version/ tune more closely fits that sung by Amy Robbins-Wilson)]


	5. Brittle

The thing about cutting someone from your life, or trying to, is that everyday things end up associated with them… So even if you succeed in banishing the individual you are still forced to face the memory of them striking in unexpected moments. In those moments even something as harmless as a tea kettle can bring you to your knees.

You can stop buying strawberry cheesecake yogurt. You can throw away the gifts you’d purchased well in advance of Christmas and his future birthdays – advanced planning coming back to bite you in the ass in a big way on that count – but you can’t stop everyone in your immediately vicinity from singing certain Golden Oldies that remind you of off-key serenades in the shower on Sunday mornings… Or prevent them from using certain turns of phrase that instantly make his voice echo the words within your head.

Breaking the stoop rule was the start of it. You bent it once and came out of it unscathed – well, relatively. You’ll never be able to shake the feeling that something you had done, or hadn’t done, had also caused him to stray – even taking into account his reassurances that it was solely him at fault.

_If the stoop rule had still been in effect, or if Tom has just been a bit earlier in coming to pick up Max… or your date a bit later… No. Tom had arrived exactly when he meant to. He wanted to size up the man that would be taking you to dinner._

_“Doesn’t your mum look —-“_

_“Tom.” You bite out a word of warning, cutting off his sentence. You can feel the way he has been looking you over since walking in the door and thusly know **exactly**  what he thinks of your appearance without needing to give him the benefit of finishing the sentence._

_Tom has his hands full trying to keep his hold on the wiggle-worm you have for a son. He is bent in a near-squat with Max wrangled between his knees, the little boy held in place by Tom’s gentle but firm grasp._

_Tom is stalling, trying to be present when Hunter arrives. Every moment Tom stays where he is is another in which your three year old can work out some way to be free of his father’s grasp and bound around the house again. “Max agrees with me – don’t you, mate?”_

_Max nods and replies with an emphatic, “Mummy!” He flings his arms up in the air, smacking Tom in the face in his over exuberance. The action causes two things to happen: Tom releases Max – freeing the little tornado of a three year old to swirl around the room once more, and a trickle of blood appears and drips from Tom’s nose._

_Tom blinks away tears as he tries to right himself, his hand immediately lifting to cover his nose and try to prevent the blood from dripping onto his clothes. Stunned from the start he’d received from Max’s reaction it takes him a second to do anything but sit on the floor on his backside._

_Max, thrilled at his escape and not yet aware of the consequences of his actions, is on a beeline to his room. He’ll have another armload of toys to bring with him for his overnight stay with his father when he reappears._

_You leave Max to gather his troops, focusing instead on his wounded father. “Oh! Tom!”_

_You try to keep your voice low to prevent Max’s attention being drawn to the fact that his father is down and bleeding, but to your ears your concerned yelp echoes around the room. You’ve not yet finished getting ready, still holding a tube of lipstick and some jewelry, but abandon the items on the coffee table in favor of scooping up a washcloth from the kitchen._

_Back on his feet, Tom already has something crumpled up within his hand and pressed to his face with his head tilted backward to try to stop the blood flow when you approach. He waves you away, “Watch out or you’ll muss that ivory dress. I’m fine. I’m fine.”_

_“Are you sure? Let me see…” You try to get a closer look and gauge the severity of the nosebleed but Tom won’t let you close enough._

_Tom lowers his hand briefly, the bleeding mostly stopped, but he quickly lifts his hand to replace the pressure once more. “Just landed a lucky blow.” He tries to smile, though you know a hit to the nose to be painful._

_That’s Tom – smile through it all._

_You tilt your head towards the kitchen, indicating the sink as you quietly instruct Tom, “Go wash up. And give me that thing. I’ll try to shepherd Max towards the door again.” You hold out your hand to accept the crumpled and bloody thing within Tom’s hand._

_Tom is hesitant to trade but ultimately swaps the bloody cloth for the kitchen towel. You don’t delay – the white bit of cloth is probably ruined by the blood, but perhaps if you get it washed before the blood has a chance to dry… You head down the hallway to deposit it in the wash and start the load before moving on to Max’s room._

_You find Max sitting in the floor before his toy chest holding a toy in each hand. You note that the one in his right hand is a more recently acquired dinosaur, a velociraptor that Max had named Rex. You carefully kneel down and rub your hand over Max’s back. “Are you going to show Rex to Daddy?”_

_Max moves to snuggle into your lap as much as he can, the plastic toy pressed between your bodies, “Yes. Mummy come, too.”_

_“No, munchkin. Mummy isn’t going to Daddy’s house with you.” Lifting the ban on going inside one another’s homes was making it complicated to explain to Max. He’s aware that you’ve gone over to Tom’s before and is coming into the age of questioning everything. “Not this time.” You lift him into your arms as you stand. Mercifully he doesn’t wiggle or resist being carried from his room._

_Tom has cleaned himself up, a slight redness to his skin around his nose the only indication that anything happened a few moments prior. He motions over his shoulder towards the kitchen as you approach him. “Washed out the dishcloth as best I could.”_

_You nod, shifting Max off your hip and into his father’s arms to eliminate the option of resuming the game of chase the pair had been playing. Time is of the essence. You want both of the Hiddleston men out of the house before Hunter arrives. You’re not ready for anyone else to be introduced into Max’s sphere. If only Tom would get the message._

_Tom turns to indicate the jewelry you’d tossed onto the coffee table, “Need any help with that?”_

_“No. Thank you, I’ve got it.” You smooth your dress down to fight against any wrinkles that may have formed from carrying Max from room to room._

_It is close – Tom and Max leaving just before Hunter’s arrival. The two vehicles might have passed on the drive through the neighborhood. Hunter helps you down the few stairs after descending from the stoop first, and holds the door open to allow you to settle into the passenger’s seat of the car. Through the evening he is attentive, keeps the conversation light, and yet…_

_Despite there being an initial spark that prompted the dinner and drinks, you don’t feel anything that pushes you to another meeting with him. The first real date you’ve been on in a while and it falls flat. You’re getting yourself out there, though, and that’s the thing you choose to focus on – not your frustration over the lack of chemistry._

_You release a long sigh as you remove your heels. You remain close to the door, listening to the sounds of Hunter driving away. He was sweet but, well, everyone can’t be Tom and leave you breathless from a single quirked look. You scowl at yourself as soon as you register the thought having occurred. **That** had been the problem all night. You’d been internally comparing every single one of Hunter’s actions to how Tom might have approached the scenario. Tom had sabotaged your date without even being present._

_No. That is unfair. **You**  had sabotaged your date with Hunter. It’s not Tom’s fault that you’d been comparing the two men all evening._

_Rather than continue to focus on the failed evening you occupy yourself with straightening the living area, tidying the space while it is quiet. Finding time to clean while also combatting the dervish of a three year old that lives with you is a challenge._

_The blanket from the sofa needs washing to remove crumbs, plus you need to attend to the load that you had started before going out. As you shift the items from the wash into the dryer you pause to examine the cloth you’d claimed from Tom. Washing it immediately had saved it from being permanently ruined by bloodstains. As you turn it in your fingers the embellishment catches your eye and you nearly drop it. It is one of the handkerchiefs from a set you gave him years ago. He still carries it with him – even after everything that has come to pass between the pair of you._

_You close your eyes and squeeze the wet bit of cloth, clenching your fingers into a fist so tight that it hurts your joints. He couldn’t have known that he would need to utilize the handkerchief, or that it would end up in your possession for however brief a time. This isn’t something meant to cause you distress even if it feels that way at the moment._

_It takes you a few minutes to steady yourself once more and continue on with your previous actions. You wander into your room to start the process of peeling yourself out of the stockings you’d donned for the evening when your phone alerts you to a newly arrived message. From Tom. You pause to inspect the text._

**_Max is asleep. Knocked right out after expending all that energy running around the house. Just in case your date didn’t comment, you looked lovely tonight._ **

_What the hell, Tom. You huff as you reread the message. This isn’t a message regarding Max, though he’d tried to disguise it as such with the two leading sentences. Despite your urges to just leave it, you can’t help but respond._

**_That’s a good thing considering it is well beyond his bedtime. And what Hunter may or may not have said to me is none of your business._ **

_Tom fires right back without delay._

**_Just trying to make sure he was a gentleman since I didn’t get to meet and take my measure of him. [Hunter?]_ **

_You shake your head and put the phone down, only to pick it up again a moment later. There’s no need to tell Tom that the date was mediocre, or that you wouldn’t be seeing Hunter again. You’ll put an end to this argument via text before it can extend further._

**_We had an enjoyable evening. Thank you again for taking Max. Goodnight._ **

_Later, as you switch off the light and relax under the covers it dawns on you that the exchanged texts weren’t Tom initiating a fight with you, or making fun of someone else’s given name. It wasn’t even really about Tom not getting to meet the man you were spending a few hours of your day with – it had been Tom, jealous._


	6. Breathless

_Tom checks the time before getting out of the car and walking towards the building from the parking lot. He’s pleasantly early, just like he likes. When he can control his arrival to events, meetings, etc., he always likes to show up with enough time to spare to get to know his environment. Today’s meeting shouldn’t take long and then he can go to pick up Max. In the last few phone calls between them she had seemed distracted, perhaps tired after her trip. All the more reason to take Max for an extra day – perhaps have a little father-son adventure._

_He’s in the building, almost to the receptionist’s desk when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He remembered to put it on silent in prep for the meeting so it wouldn’t issue forth the little melody Max adores so much._

_The number that appears on the screen gives him pause._

_She’s calling? Now? She knows he’s going to be unavailable until sometime mid-afternoon. They’d discussed it yesterday in planning for the weekend and he has the follow-up texts to prove it…._

_“Hullo?”_

_The receptionist looks up and gives him a nod he almost misses. He waves in return, a half-hearted greeting he’ll amend once he figures out what has prompted this phone call._

_“Hullo?” He repeats. Had she pocket dialed him? She’s done it before – an accidental button push while trying to retrieve her wallet from her purse – and he’d sat there listening to her idle conversation with the cashier and then her sing-song words to Max on the drive home._

_Then he hears the soft inhalation, a rustling and whooshing of movement before his son’s voice comes over the line, “Daddy? Mummy’s sick.”_

_The discovery that the right sequence of buttons pressed would net him a parent, depending on whose mobile he snatched, was one that had prompted a very serious discussion between the three of them. Well – as serious a discussion as one can have with a three and a half year old. Mummy and Daddy’s mobiles weren’t toys. And most certainly shouldn’t be removed from bags, purses, or briefcases. She’d been several hours away before realizing that Max had taken possession of her phone the other morning, commandeering it so he could play that block game he liked._

_“Max, mate…” He pauses, rethinking his tone as he continues towards the receptionist’s desk. His words as he spoke them had almost sounded cross. This wasn’t Max trying to coax him into coming for dinner, or any manner of other mischief to try to get mother and father in the same place at the same time. No, his son’s voice conveyed concern. “What do you think about giving Mummy a few days to feel better?”_

_He is rewarded with sounds of Max hemming, considering his father’s offer. Tom suppresses a chuckle. It wouldn’t do to have his son overhear his amusement, though he’s almost positive that Max’s expression in this moment is one of consternation._

_Taking the final few steps to reach the reception desk Tom presses the palm of his free hand into the edge of the counter, leaning into the structure while he finds a way to end the call with his son. “Max, mate, can I talk to Mummy? Give Mummy the phone for me. But don’t hang up…”_

_They’d learned the hard way to give careful instructions._

_He is graced with the sounds of Max moving around the house, muffled footsteps proceeding the bump of him walking into the door – presumably the bedroom door – and then the surprised sounds of his mother._

_She sounds strained, more so than she had yesterday while debating with him over the proposed weekend stay. “Max? Munchkin when did you…” Her words come clearer as she accepts the phone. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t realize he had my phone, again. I’ll let you go. You’ve got your…” She breaks off the sentence, stopping to cough – the rattling noise Tom hears as she does so, a bit alarming. “…meeting now, right?”_

_“Soon. But – that doesn’t sound good. When did that start?”_

_Maybe he can pop his head in, say a quick hello and that he’s interested in working with them but needs a slight delay in the time of the meeting, just needing to run to pick up his son a bit earlier than planned. Caregiving while sick is a challenge to say the least._

_“I’m – fine.” She’s half talking to him, half talking to Max, now. “It was sweet of you to – I’m fine.”_

_Her coughing provides direct counterpoint to her words._

_Tom shakes his head, turning about on his heel and walking back down the hallway towards his car. Screw the meeting. Some things are more important._

_He assumes she’s been to the doctor. She’s always been good about that, reminding him to go rather than try to pity-party his way through illnesses. While he pauses at the grocer to pick up tissues and a few other probably-needed assortments, he tries to think back to the last time she was sick. Nothing sticks out in recent memory. It was always his poor sleep schedule, or inclination to not dress for the weather, that caused a cold to settle in. Always him that was afflicted, never her._

_Max is there to greet him at the door, accepting a hug and a kiss – and giving Tom a grin when a pair of coloring books are produced – before leading Tom ceremoniously to the bedroom._

_She is less than amused._

_“Tom. What. Go to your meeting.”_

_Tom waves her off, opening a box of tissues and passing it over to her as he takes his measure of her appearance. Frankly, her pallor is concerning. “Never mind that. Have you been keeping up your fluids? What was your temperature the last time you took a reading?”_

_She groans but complies, answering his questions in order, accepting his help begrudgingly. It goes on like that for two days. Tom refusing to go to work, taking on Max full time until she’s better again, and bringing every soothing remedy for her that he can think of. All the while she protests his presence._

_“Please, Tom. Please stop. Go back to work.”_

_“No.” He replies, giving his head a gentle shake as he folds the last of the laundry and places it in the appropriate drawer. She still stores socks in the bottom-most drawer, underthings next up, the drawer split with her few pyjamas that weren’t simply oversized t-shirts… He closes his eyes, silently cursing the fact that he can’t shake the little details from his memory._

_“You don’t…”_

_Her response is cut off by her coughing. He’s trying not to worry, but her cough is worse than what he heard via the phone when Max called him a few days ago. Tom has time enough to come to her side and check the cool cloth that he had placed on her forehead to try to lower her temperature. It needs refreshing, which he’ll see to in a moment, after she’s said her piece._

_“You don’t get to be my knight in shining armor anymore, Tom. That’s not who we are to one another. Not now.”_

_He chides her, “I’m not trying to be your knight. And we both know my armor would be anything but resplendent.”_

_She can hardly manage a laugh, but it is there, just under the rasping cough. “They’ll blacklist you. Go back to work.”_

_“No. They won’t. And I’m not going anywhere. So stop asking.”_

_It wasn’t a question of working with that particular group. They had been understanding regarding his need to miss the meeting that day, and every day since. His attention was needed elsewhere, simple as that. If it continues, they will move on, find someone to fill his spot. Other opportunities will present._

_He leaves her side for a moment to re-wet the washcloth in the bathroom sink. When he approaches again she has shifted, the most movement he has seen from her other than needing to get up for the bathroom – which she doesn’t do nearly enough despite drinking the copious amounts of water and juice he provides._

_He runs the now-cool cloth over her jawline, moving the damp cloth to rest just above the collar of her shirt, right at the nape of her neck. “No. I’m staying here. Don’t you understand? You and Max will always come first.”_

_She seems to process his words, looking into his eyes and trying to be present, though she seems a little dazed. Finally she speaks. “I – I can’t do this anymore, Tom.”_

_“Do what? Darling, this is just a little bug. You’ll be better in no time.”_

_“No.” She pushes the blanket aside to catch his hand from where he has trailed it down over her shoulder. “This. With you.”_

_She pauses to cough, and it is the most nerve wracking pause he’s ever known._

_Her voice rasps in her throat as she continues, “It is exhausting. Waking up to hope that today will be the day. Today will be better. That this day will be the one when I can finally move on. Move forward. But then I remember. God, Tom. Remembering. Every morning. And then forgiving, because… Because you’re here. And we have Max. It’s an endless cycle I just can’t do anymore.”_

_Her skin burns to his touch, despite his efforts, and the water, and the medication. Or maybe it is just that his hands have gone clammy. How in control of her words is she in this moment? Or has the medication and exhaustion worn her through?_

_Quietly, he murmurs to her, furrowing his eyebrows together, “What are you saying?”_

_“Hating you. I can’t. I don’t. What I mean is, I love you. I forgive you for…” Coughing prevents her from voicing the betrayal. His betrayal._

_But she forgives him._

_It is something he has waited years for her to look at him and say, and it comes in a moment full of doubt. It comes in a moment when he can’t take her in his arms and pour out all the words he’s wanted to say to her that she would never hear, squeezing them between fevered kisses in an effort to make up for lost time._

_Well, they get the fevered part, at least._

_She won’t release his hand so he brings her fingers to his lips, an action she protests, “Don’t do that, Tom. I’m sick.”_

_He shakes his head ever so slightly, “I couldn’t care less.”_

_Forgiveness. Hope that they could try to be to each other what they once were._

_She’d tried dating to get over what had happened. To try to move on. It hadn’t worked. He’d seen that, and the frustration she had dealt with over that fact. He hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to, to be frank. Putting someone else through that was cruel. They would always come second to his love for her. Some deeper part of him had seen this day on the horizon, determined to see it come to fruition._

_“I care.” She pauses to cough. It doesn’t sound like she’s able to dislodge any of the phlegm that seems to be filling her lungs. She closes her eyes, pressing her mouth into a thin line. Her annoyed face, he knows it well. After a moment she blinks up at him, “I’m sorry. I’m so used to arguing with you… It will take time to… We need to get to know each other again. Put effort into working together, strengthening us, versus the argumentative barrier we built between us.”_

_“Darling, I’d rather argue endlessly with you than exchange pleasantries with anyone else.”_

He should have taken her to the hospital sooner. He should have taken her that very first day rather than spend those few precious days listening to her deteriorate. Instead he had waited, returning to her every day and patiently waiting – just as he had these past few years. He had wanted to prove to her that he was sorry for all of it. Wanted to prove to her that he was worth a second chance.

And what had that waiting netted him? Aghast looks from the doctors. Accusations. Endless tests and then medication given to Max and to him, just as a precaution, while the doctors worked frantically to save her.

Bronchitis that had developed into pneumonia. Legionnaire’s Disease.

The breaking of the news to the public would have been all consuming if he’d had time for it. But he didn’t. All he thought of was her. The time lost to stubborn bickering, borderline hate. The mother of his child had contracted a rare disease that most had never hear of.

His trips back and forth from home to the hospital were well documented, but he never noticed the flashes of the cameras, never heard the shouts of the reporters. Tom sat vigil outside of her room in the ICU, determined to be there every day. Some days Max would go with him, some days a family member would be available to watch Max because hospital hallways were no place for a child to spend day after day.

He would sit during visiting hours and lament every unkind word ever spoken to her, every ill thought-out action – and then someone would come by and gently tap his shoulder, murmur the time, and he would go home to pace, and clean, and try to listen to the adventures of the day recounted by his son. He had a to-go bag prepared, just in case a call came from the hospital that she was better, that she was ready for release. That somehow in the time he was away there had been a drastic change and he would no longer have to see the beige hospital hallways before her room where signs reminded him of circumstance.

ICU.

No admittance.

No contact.

All because he’d wanted to hear that he was forgiven.


	7. Burden

** **

**L** egionnaire’s Disease. Fatality rate as low, they said, as 5%.

They are words meant as a kindness. Assurances meant to give him hope. But there’s always those poor souls, and their families, that end up in the 5%.

Tom has learned to live with regret – a notion his younger self would have scoffed at.

Regret? Never!

But that was before Max, before he met her, before all of it.

_He is a changed man. Some try to argue that he is just expanding his repertoire – that his choice to move behind the camera or away from the camera entirely stems from a desire to become the next Redford, Howard, or Hanks._

_Those close to him see it with better clarity. The damage that he is incapable of keeping buried, the pain that bleeds from him, always rising to the surface to be captured by the lens. He does try, try to put on a happy face for those he interacts with…_

_Particularly Max. Above all others, with Max._

_Little Max, who has only ever known separate houses and thinly veiled barbs hurled from parent to parent. Nights at one house or the other, sometimes a few day long adventure with a single parent._

_The little boy that doesn’t understand the abrupt cession of long days spent in hospital hallways; who squirms in his father’s lap in the chamber that echoes the labored breathing of others, protests the restrictive miniature version of his father’s suit, and having to wear it._

_Max, who has his father’s eyes, ruddy complexion, and blonde curls – but has his mother’s nose and sharp tongue – the latter developing into a trait he doesn’t hesitate to utilize. Ever._

_The tantrums from Max’s twos make a resurgence in his teens, though it is arguable that everyone is petulant in their adolescent years. Tom weathers the slammed doors and stomped feet. He’s had practice with dealing with such ire, after all… something again counted among the things he wishes he could change. He knows the root of Max’s acting out. He feels it, too. Grief that bubbles into anger, frustration._

_He’s never had to give Max the_ **_life’s not fair_ ** _speech. Max knows it, has always known it. Lives it. Though sometimes he tests Tom’s patience…_

_There’s always a line they don’t cross, or didn’t – until Max decided that one night he would completely disregard curfew. And every phone call. And then saunter in the backdoor with a grin on his face._

_“Where’ve you been?!” Tom demands, standing so abruptly that the kitchen chair jumps across the floor to settle some distance behind him._

_Max hunches just a bit, the smile falling from his face as he shuts the backdoor, “Out.”_

_“Right. Yes. I asked_ **_where_ ** _?”_

_“Out.”_

_Tom arches one of his eyebrows at his son. Max may have already started inching up but Tom still has him on height. “With?”_

_“My mates.”_

_An answer, of sorts. Max has a good group of friends. It’s hard not to let this seething anger take hold, feeding off the fear over_ not knowing _. He settles on glowering at his teenager, who is deliberately avoiding his gaze and sulking over to the refrigerator to find something to drink, taking his time in doing so._

_Most children would slink from an angry parent, beg forgiveness. Not this child._

_Tom speaks with clear intention, “You know the rules. You clear after school activities, even time spent with your mates, with me._ **_First_ ** _.”_

_Max rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide the motion as he walks from the refrigerator to the table to set down his drink. “Yea. Right.”_

_“Yes.” Tom corrects his son’s affirmative response._

_“Yes.” Max cocks his head as he parrots back Tom’s correction. He clinks the glass down onto the table, sloshing the liquid held within. “Your_ **_rules_ ** **.** _”_

_Bristling, Tom scowls at his defiant son, “They’re there for a reason.”_

_“How’d you like it if I made you clear seeing your mates with me before you went out?”_

_They’re not quite shouting at one another now, but drawing close. Tom is trying to keep the edge from his voice but he isn’t wholly successful, “That’s different, Max. I’m your father!”_

_“Yea?” Max gives his head a hard shake and slams the palm of his hand down onto the tabletop, “I wish Mum were here!” He inhales and stills the very moment the words tumble from his lips into the space between them. He stares, wide eyed and frozen in the moment, at his father._

_There was the line. They both just jumped across it._

_Tom, rigid from the argument and then suddenly not, suddenly unable to even breathe, turns and takes the few steps needed to reach the doorframe of the kitchen and then sags into it. It’s all the movement he can manage. He lets the silence extend, unable to speak though angry words had moments before been on the tip of his tongue._

_He’s done his best to be everything he could for Max. Provide for Max. Not let having a celebrity father warp his son’s sense of self. But it isn’t the same. Not the same as if she’d been able to help raise him, even considering the turbulence they’d endured the first few years of Max’s life._

_There had been that glimmer of hope. Not enough to fill a day. Even that short span of time was tainted – tainted, and then snatched away from him. It was as though someone reached within her and snuffed out the will to fight. She’d released her long-held and rightful grudge against him, and then a few days later…_

_She was gone._

_Tom exhales – a long, slow, and shaky breath, “I do too, mate. I do too.”_

A hand grips and shakes his shoulder, gently spoken words jerking his surroundings into focus. His daydreams have been melding into reality as he stares at the ICU walls giving him an up-close view of worst-case-scenario. A waking nightmare.

He blinks through his fingers at the window before her room. It takes him a second to unfold himself from his hunched position, one arm tucked at an odd angle to try to support his frame, his face pressed unceremoniously into his hand. If he dared look in a mirror he would probably find a red residual imprint of his fingers splayed across his face.

His overactive imagination is forcing him through hell, as though his reality isn’t enough.

“Mr. Hiddleston? Tom?”

The doctors are all coming around, most finally using his given name, as he requested. Yesterday? – yes, it had been just yesterday – they had spent yet another day battling back and forth regarding where she might have contracted the disease. He didn’t know. He hated not knowing.

He hated being barred from her room even more, but they had been inflexible on that point. Two days without being able to talk them into allowing him in. Truthfully, their logic made sense – not wanting to potentially make it more difficult for her to get better by introducing something else into her system. Let the medicine work… then… Then. 

The soundness of their logic hadn’t tempered his indignation. It had led to his vigil outside her room, just in case between the two of them the law of the land could be cracked.

But she’d been too weak to argue. Or he’d worn every last ounce of argument out of her over the past few years.

Tom pushes aside the surge of guilt to look up and focus on the face of the doctor that has come to talk with him. He can’t tell by the look he is receiving if the news will be welcome or not. He’s already decided, if the prognosis is poor, if they claim they can’t do anything for her, he’s going to go to another doctor – and another – and another – until he gets the answer he’s looking for. He  **refuses**  to see the future he just imagined become a reality.

Worried that the next thing from the doctor’s mouth will be an apology, he stands, readying himself to lurch down the hallway and begin the process of finding another specialist – someone who can help them – help  _her._

“Sir…”

Tom processes the doctor’s report, the news of her condition, but it leaves his brain almost as quickly as it arrives. He sways on his feet, reaching out to grasp the ledge of the window to her room to try to steady himself. “Wh – what?”

“Are you – Tom – do you need to…”

“I’m… I’m…” he waves his hand in the air, trying to wave away the doctor’s concern and refocus his brain on the doctor’s words. “Say again?”

The doctor is reaching out towards him so he returns the gesture, the pair of them clasping forearms. The doctor’s sure grip seems to root him to the floor once more. He speaks with a practiced calm. “The medicine appears to be working. Her bloodwork is encouraging. We’re not ready to release her, yet, but… She’s awake, and asking for you.”

Tom blinks at the sign plastered just below the window to her room and the ones on the door itself before looking back at the man who still has a firm grip on his arm. “You’ve.” No that’s not the sentence he wants to utter, “… I can go in?”

The  **no admittance**  signs have been taunting him for days.

“She’s weak. Only for a few minutes. We ask that you wear a biomask, as a precaution. While the medicine has been –“ the doctor releases Tom’s forearm for a moment to step to the nurse’s station to retrieve the indicated item, “—allowed to do its job, we don’t want to take any chances.”

“Yes. Of course. Yes.” Tom accepts the biomask with trembling fingers, blinking to try to fight the sting of tears and not succeeding in his efforts. He takes a shuddered breath and pulls his focus from the small bit of medical paraphernalia back to the doctor who is still looking at him with a measure of concern.

It’s just a lack of sleep and the immeasurable weight of guilt that has been crushing down upon him all week that has him unsteady on his feet.  _He’s_  going to be ok because  _she’s_  going to be ok.

Max should be here. No – no, their little three-and-a-half year old would want to climb into the bed with her and the doctor said she is still weak. Maybe tomorrow. He’ll explain as carefully as he can to Max tonight, and again in the morning – maybe she’ll be stronger still than she is now. Maybe they’ll move her from the ICU. Or at least allow him to sit with her within her room so he can study  _that_  side of the wall versus staring at the same structural segment hour after hour over the past series of days.

Just before affixing the mask and knocking lightly on the door to announce his entrance he gives the doctor a nod, “Thank you.”

His biomask covers the lower portion of his face, a span of space extending from the bridge of his nose down to hook beneath his chin. He stands just inside the door, certain that he could cross the room in a matter of strides and scoop her into his arms. But that wouldn’t be wise. Restraint. He needs to possess restraint or they’ll demand that he leave again – force him back to his hallway vigil.

The moment she sees him with the mask on she makes a face. Her annoyed face. How he’s missed it. Then comes the thing that almost makes him throw caution to the wind. She  _smiles_  – smiles  _at him_ , weary though it may be. “Tom.”

He takes a step away from the door, the mask bobbing as he speaks, rough edges scratching at his cheeks. “Darling, do you need anything?”

She has a cup of water placed right at the edge of the table with a straw teetering against the edge of the cup, and he can see her call button wedged down by her side. A blanket? There might be a spare one in the little closet in the corner of the room. Or magazines – something from the gift shop to pass the time, if she’s up for it?

She shakes her head in a gentle motion, barely more than an inch in either direction. “No.” Her gaze drifts from him to the door for a moment, “Max?”

“Home today. With Mum.” Had that been the cause for her smile? Thinking that he would check on her first before allowing their son into the room? He stalls halfway between the door and her bed, unsure if he should advance further. “I’ll – bring him tomorrow. Just rest, for now.”

She closes her eyes as she replies, opening them again after a brief pause. “I am.”

“Is there anything else I can do? That I can bring you – that you want?” He’s at a loss. Should he let her rest? He’s wanted nothing for days now but to interact with her, to try to continue the fragmented conversation held in her bedroom… but now… She looks so tired, laying there propped up by pillows, her skin still tinged by illness.

“Just you. Come. Sit.” She says, the weary smile emerging once more, “And take off – that damn mask.”

He obeys, cautiously making the final approach and settling into the vacant chair, pulling it close enough that she doesn’t have to crane her body to see his face. “Darling, the doctors said…”

“Thomas. William.” The words come with effort, but she’s adamant, “You take off – that mask – or so help me.”

Tom slips to the edge of the chair, tucking his knees against the bed frame to close as much distance as possible. He sets his hands over hers, shifting to squeeze his right hand under the stack – sandwiching her digits between his own. “I will not. I will not because I love you. Because it was a condition set in order to gain admittance. And I will risk whatever ire you can muster… because out there –“ he twists, lifting his hand from atop hers to reach and point towards the hallway just for a moment before replacing it again, “out there barred from being near you?  _That_  is far worse.”

 


	8. Bête Noire

** **

**T** om doesn’t bring Max in to see you until they’ve moved you from the ICU to a private room. It is progress, but it isn’t home. A day or two more, for caution’s sake. A few more days and then you can go home to finish recuperating in the comfort of your own space. You appreciate all that the doctors have done and are still doing, but… The quality of care isn’t a factor at all. It is their insistence on keeping you on the grounds that lends weight to the notion, however unfounded, that there is a test out there circulating – one that might extend your stay indefinitely.

Tom has been present every day. Mercifully the horrid medical mask did not make a second appearance. It was only gone because the doctors had no longer required it. That much you know for certain. Tom would have stood on his head while talking to you if the doctors had told him it was medically necessary. Had they required the masks for an extended duration of time, for Max to wear one - you would have burst into tears on sight. You’d been graced with dimples, paired with smiles, from both father and son. Just having the pair of them there helps beyond words.

Occasionally Tom will step out when another family member or friend wants to stop by, but for the most part he is present for as long as the hospital will allow – pushing the limits of visiting hours as much as he can without garnering ill-favor from the staff. Oh the toll it must be taking on his work, but he refuses to see reason, choosing instead to bring Max and sit with you.

Today Max seems to be on his best behavior, behavior not even reserved for visits with his grandparents. Yesterday there had been a mild meltdown when it came time to leave for the day. You’d managed to maintain your composure until the moment they had passed from view outside your room. Tom had called from the elevator, making sure you were ok and assuring you that Max had settled down, then let Max give you a pout-filled goodnight that lasted the entire duration of their trip back home.

After getting a nod of permission from Tom, a single word command spoken as reminder –  _gentle_  – Max had climbed up onto the bed and into your arms. Max seems undaunted by, or is blatantly ignoring, the medical equipment also occupying the room. You expect Max’s usual outbursts of energy, maybe an insistence of hunger despite being so soon after breakfast but none come. It takes just a moment for Max to settle, after first giving you a hug and a wet kiss as only a preschooler can deliver. It must have been some conversation held between the two prior to getting on that elevator yesterday.

Tom once again hesitates in his approach, waiting to judge your reception before deciding how to proceed. The weight and warmth brought by having your son curled up in your lap, already distracted by his toys, helps in keeping you from focusing on the fact that you’re still in the hospital.

“Sleep well?” He asks, hesitating rather than closing the distance and offering you a peck on the cheek to follow his son’s.

You offer him a tilt of your head and half-shrug, as much movement as you can manage with your lap and arms already occupied. It takes you smiling at him to erase the slight furrow of a frown between his eyebrows. “As well as I can, in here. And you? Did it take long to settle after the…” You dip your chin to indicate Max, ignoring the jab of plastic dinosaur into your leg.

Rather than taking the chair in the corner of the room Tom heads for the one by the window. He drags it forward to sit near the foot of the bed as he replies, “I’m sorry about that. We stayed longer than we should have yesterday.” On cue, Max emits a yawn. It pulls a chuckle from his father. “But someone bounded into bed this morning before dawn, impatient to see you.”

They’re here early – before the doctors have finished making their rounds. Maybe today they’ll deliver the news you’re waiting for. A simple series of words:  **Yes, you can go home.**  You try not to get your hopes up only to have them dashed. That sort of pain, all too familiar, is unwanted.

Max pauses playing with his dinosaurs to tilt his head back to look up at you, not at all sheepish that he woke his father up to demand a visit. He gives you his trademark impish grin and goes back to playing with his toys. It’s a smile that perfectly mimics those given by his father, impish grins that you remember from the days before things went sour.

For a while you exchange pleasantries with Tom – both of you trying to carefully navigate the potential verbal minefield between you.  You’ve had so much practice being everything but kind to one another.

To allow you time to rest, and perhaps prove that he hasn’t totally abandoned the outside world, Tom has brought his tablet with him today. While Tom’s attention is focused elsewhere, and Max drifting off to sleep in your arms, you take the time to look at the man that you haven’t really allowed yourself to look at in ages – at least to notice his appearance without allowing the events of the past to color your observations.

The curls that he had sported during your pregnancy are gone, trimmed into submission at any rate. His face still holds the familiar laugh lines, and freckles… and right now a bit of stubble, most likely the result of not having the patience to add that particular task to his morning routine, or maybe not wanting to spend the additional time away from the hospital.

Or maybe he’d intended upon shaving and his attention had been pulled away from the task by Max and the need to ensure your impatient son was properly clothed before dashing out the door well before visiting hours started. The ever so slight stiffness to Max’s usually soft curls hints as to the answer to your musings. A quick swipe of Daddy’s gelled comb through Max’s hair allowed son to better mimic father. The thought leads you to imagining Max stationed on Tom’s bed, or seated on the bathroom countertop to better observe Tom’s morning routine.

If the swipe of gel in his hair becomes practice you’ll need to ask Tom what brand he is using so Max will not protest the difference in color or shape of the bottle. You know what Tom used to use, but if he’s changed brands during the time that has passed…

The calm that you have been enjoying begins to give way.

You forgave Tom. Back in your bedroom with him doting over every movement, every word you could muster. That hadn’t been a fever dream. Right? It wasn’t something that you had imagined in your so-sick-you-could-hardly-breathe state?

No – it had been a moment of lucidity. Something that had needed to be spoken. Needed to be done for some time now.

But what does it mean for the future?

Forgiveness. Yes.

Forgiveness – and  _love_.

Still.

Because yes, you still love him. God help you, you still love him despite the fact that he had chosen to cheat. Intended or no, it didn’t change the fact that it had happened. Tom has shown remorse for his actions, and devotion – both to Max, and to you – at least in the limited capacity that you had allowed.

You suck the inner edge of your bottom lip between your teeth and worry at that bit of skin, your eyes dropping from his shaded jawline down to his shoulders – hunched to try to find support for his frame. These chairs offer modest comfort, assuredly more than those in the common waiting areas, but for a tall man to occupy such an object day after day? Tom must be developing tender areas. You make a mental note to purchase him a trip to see a masseuse after your release as way of thanks.

But then he might try and invite you along. He might try to turn the trip into an attempted reconnection… view it as a way to rekindle something you’ve tried to smother for several years now. Is that a bad thing? Well – no. But you need him to start small. The pair of you need to see if you can manage to complete everyday tasks before any sort of romantic notions are pursued.

Oh but how good would a massage feel? Having every spot of tension released from your body and being able to crack an eye open and lift your head ever so slightly to see his lazy smile, half hidden by the masseuse’s chair.

There is a light knock, causing Max to stir in your arms, moments before the doctor enters the room. You’re still so deep in your daydream that you don’t immediately react to the additional presence in the room. It takes movement from Tom, a jerky double take, to fully pull you back into the present. A split second passes and you watch as his right eyebrow arches up in a violent twitch, one that pulls at the features of his face. Something about the new arrival to the room has dragged a memory from the depths of Tom’s mind, one that he clearly doesn’t enjoy revisiting.

You have two choices: The first, to stay frozen, staring at Tom until the memory travels the link between the pair of you, as it inevitably will do – or turn and find out for yourself what has Tom reacting in such a way. Either way, Tom won’t be left to face the memory alone.

The moment you swing your attention to the doorway you know the exact point in time that Tom has travelled to in his mind – and the exact reason for it. It’s the doctor’s scrubs – clearly the fun print meant to bring a bit of joy or comfort to the patients, at least meant to offer a distraction. For the pair of you the handprints on the fabric don’t conjure fun thoughts, but ones forever mingled with heartache.

Max’s first birthday.

_Your best friend has been issuing warnings all week as you’ve been preparing for Max’s birthday, and though you wish she would, doesn’t let up even on the day itself. “You shouldn’t have invited him.” Isabetta reminds you, for what feels like the billionth time._

_“He’s Max’s father.” You sigh out your reply. You’re tired of this discussion. Ok, yes, it wasn’t the best idea to have him over, but with the added buffer of friends and family and the distraction offered by the momentous event itself…_

_“He can hold his own birthday party for Max, then. Heaven knows he can afford it.”_

_You scowl at her logic, your deep frown hopefully showing your disapproval of Isabetta’s repeatedly voiced opinion. “That’s not the point – and shouldn’t be used as reasoning!”_

_“How about this for reasoning, then. He cheated on you.”_

_You wince at her stage-whispered words and try to swallow down the wave of ill-feeling that her statement conjures. Trying to hide the reaction, you keep your eyes focused on the table, on the napkins you’re trying to sort. You nod slowly, “Yes. Well. On **me**. Not on Max. I can’t punish my son for something his father did to me…”_

_She snorts, “Two things. He’s **one** , so he wouldn’t be aware of the difference. And he’d be having  **two** parties. Where’s the punishment?”_

_You abandon your task to glare her down, “Look, I invited Tom and the party is today. Too late to back out now. So drop it.”_

_She mutters, still protesting but acknowledging the fact that you won’t be bending on the matter. “I still say it’s a bad idea.”_

_“Noted.”_

_More than noted, really. You agree with her, but you are determined to try to make things works – for Max’s sake. You and Tom haven’t had much success being around one another up until this point, but can surely manage an hour or two of festivities. Surely._

_You venture away, leaving Isabetta to mutter about buying stock in pints of your favorite ice cream as she reassess how you have the paints set out and double-check the tarps meant to protect all surfaces you don’t want covered in paint after the days’ festivities. Each of the children attending the birthday party will go home with a handprint “portrait”, or at least a unique painting created for them by their child. You have a larger canvas set aside to become a mural, one to document the day and all the attendees for Max to enjoy once he’s older._

_Holding Max in your arms helps to calm your nerves, your little wiggle worm clearly ready to get messy. You smile, pushing all the other thoughts and worries aside. The day is all about Max. Everything else can wait. Most have heeded your warning about wearing old clothes but there are a few that leave you thankful that you chose a washable set of paints. Washable and non-toxic: absolute musts when you went shopping for supplies._

_The process of greeting guests keeps you walking between the door and the main room where you are trying to get the early arrivals started on their painting projects. The closer it gets to the actual time of the party the more annoyed with Tom’s absence you get. Though the less time spent around one another the better, it was his son’s first birthday! Rather than wait for his arrival to get Max started in the process of thoroughly coating himself with paint – an eventuality you’re already prepared for – you set Max down in front of his individual canvases. One for Tom, one for you._

_Of course Isabetta is the one to spot Tom walking up the drive and ends up greeting him at the door. The moment you hear his voice, a low reply to whatever Isabetta had said to him, you know you’ll end up hearing several **I told you so** ’s from Isabetta. Your insides do flips and you hurry to switch out with her in an attempt to save both parties from further hushed conversation._

_In your rush to get your best friend away from your ex you don’t even notice the paint on your hands until you’ve walked to meet him in the entryway. At least you’re wearing old clothes. It doesn’t much matter when you swipe streaks of paint over your thighs. Your stomach drops a bit further when you notice the number of gifts in Tom’s hands – several bags, a wrapped box – and a cake balanced atop the lot._

_“We had early guests so we went ahead and…” You try to bite your tongue despite the fact that you had specifically told him you would handle the cake. There’s mixed signals and then there’s blatantly trying to… You shake your head, looking down at your paint streaked hands, Max’s half-hand prints on your forearm help to keep the sniped comments fighting to the surface from jettisoning out of your mouth. The sheet cake Tom’s holding is gorgeous and you won’t have to worry about guests not getting enough icing. “I’ll – I’ll take the cake. Presents should stick to the outskirts of the room unless you want the wrapping covered in paint, too. And…” Where were you going with that sentence? Scolding him on the number of gifts? You reroute, “Max is having a blast.”_

_Tom smiles, not picking up on the undercurrent of frustration you’re already exuding, or purposefully ignoring it. He looks past you, surveying the beginnings of the artwork being undertaken by parents and children alike, “Today is going to be fantastically messy.”_

_You make the mistake of looking up from the presents up at his face. Here’s the dangerous bit: close proximity to Tom. The man is good looking, particularly so when he’s relaxed and rumpled. There’s no arguing that point. No admitting it to him, either. Not anymore._

_“Hmmm.” You nod and turn away, keen on hiding the second cake before he spots it. It’ll come up between the pair of you eventually, or someone else will question the absence of the cake that had previously occupied the counter. Hopefully all will follow your lead and keep the drama contained until the guests go home._

_You focus on keeping things as neutral as possible between you and Tom, keeping the focus on Max. All goes well – until the buffer between the pair of you starts to dissipate. ****_

_The blow up doesn’t happen until cleanup begins, when you finally stop trying to wipe blue paint out of Max’s hair and get a proper look at the man sitting cross-legged on the other side of your son to see if he’s ended up with just as much paint on him as you have. His right side resembles a Jackson Pollock – the jeans are faded enough that it won’t matter – but what throws you sideways is not the hodgepodge of colors on his shirt, but the shirt itself._

_The blue shirt._

_THAT blue shirt._

_“What…” You think for a moment you’re going to choke on the air, on your tongue, on your words. “What are you wearing?”_

_“Dug something out of the closet.” Tom doesn’t look at you as he replies, too focused on grinning at the artwork Max has just created for him._

_Does he not even **realize**  what he’s done?_

_You can’t force yourself to move. God how you want to blink! Breathe! But all you can see is him tugging the shirt on and rushing towards you. The very damned shirt he has on his back this very moment! Inviting him was a horrible idea. The wound is still so very raw. You know he’s washed the thing but now, over the paint and sweet scent of cake and ice cream, still you can smell the way the room smelled – the mixture of sweat and lust that had clung to him._

_He’s finally realized that you’ve gone still and blinks at you, puzzled._

_Finally you can free yourself, anger once again motivating your muscles into action. You make sure Isabetta has an eye on Max and stand quickly, careful to give the wet paint on the tarp-covered-floor a wide berth. You need distance from Tom. Distance from the shirt that you’d last seen worn inside out, covering the man that had tried to keep you from leaving him. “I can’t believe you wore that today! Here!”_

_It has taken a delayed moment but recognition finally hits Tom. You’re so angry you can’t even focus on the emotions passing through him. You can hardly focus on his words. You’re vaguely aware of him following you towards the front door. Thankfully only a spare few family members and Isabetta are present to witness this._

_“I didn’t mean… it was in the back of my closet!”_

_“I can’t believe you **kept**  it!”_

_“I thought I had trashed it.”_

_“Obviously you didn’t.” You’re trying to keep from yelling, or crying. Right now you’re only succeeding preventing the former. The fact that he’s seeing you cry over this, yet again, just serves to fuel the anger pouring from you._

_Tom grimaces, “Jesus. Do you think I… I didn’t do this on purpose!”_

_You glare at him, tears and all, “That’s always your answer, isn’t it. It’s all just one big accident.” You take a gulp of air, remembering where you are moments before storming out of your own home. You’re not at his place, fleeing from this philandering man. Not this time. You pull the door open so hard it bounces against the doorstop and nearly slams shut again, stopping short only because you catch it._

_“It’s not always… Today. We’re doing this today?! Can’t you let it go for…”_

_“Don’t you try to turn this around on me. Get the canvas Max painted for you and get out.” You wrap your arms across your chest, gripping your opposing biceps to keep from reaching towards the man who is standing far too close to you and pushing him out the door._

_Tom stands framed in the entryway, his arms held rigidly at his sides. Then someone hands him the canvas, paint still drying, and pulls his angry gaze away from you. You’re aware of Isabetta approaching, enabling Tom to say goodbye to Max without walking back into the house._

_You’re silent as he says goodbye, but can’t keep your mouth clamped shut when he turns to you and pauses as though he wants to try to start the vicious cycle of apologies again. You look right into those cloudless eyes, unblinking. At the moment anger matches anger. “Max will be ready for your days with him, as we already agreed, but otherwise we’re done, Tom. If you touch me, or so much as step foot in this house again I’ll make your life a living hell. I swear it.”_

_The only reaction you note is a light shake of his head and then you turn your back, pausing only to accept Max from Isabetta before trying to find a better outlet for the poison currently flowing through your system. The house needs a great deal of cleaning. Paint is everywhere._

_Vaguely, you’re aware of Tom’s muttered words at your back: “As if it wasn’t already.”_

Discharged. The word rings in your ears, overpowering the memory that has you in a stranglehold. A steady pressure settles onto your ankle pulling your focus down to Tom, where he has reached over the bedrail to grip your sheet-clad limb.

You blink, looking back at the doctor, “What?”

Max is wiggling in your lap, clearly excited. “Mummy can come home?!” He twists his body in impossible angles, swiveling to face you before reaching up to clasp the sides of your neck and repeat himself. “Mummy can come home!”

“I can?” Max’s excitement is catching. You switch from blinking away the fog of memory while looking at the doctor to smiling down at Max, then smiling at Tom. His smile is a fraction of a second too slow and you remember – he was just walking through the same painful path that you were. You owe him so much more than a trip to see a masseuse. You’ll deal with that after the doctor leaves the three of you alone in the room once more.

You can go home! You just need the paperwork signed by the doctor and you’ll be allowed to sleep in your own bed again. Tom sits back in his chair again, muttering a thanks before the doctor leaves as you process the news of your imminent departure. Max, still wiggling with excitement, is determined to receive your full focus. He kneels in your lap and presses his hands to either side of your face, tilting your head back and forth until you’ve made eye contact with him. “Mummy. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy!”

“Yes, munchkin?” You’re trying to look to Tom to figure out where to begin but Max won’t have it. He flexes his little fingers over your cheekbones in his impatience, his dinosaurs now forgotten in your lap.  “Yes, baby. I’m listening.”

“Come home wif me and Daddy.”

This time when you look away from him and at his father you hold your focus on Tom despite the insistent little wiggle worm in your lap. You guess from Tom’s expression that they’ve had a conversation or two about what will happen this day arrived. You just want the comfort of your own bed. And quiet. “Tom – I…”

He’s quick to reply, before you can voice a decision one way or another, and before Max can pull your attention away again. “You need someone to take care of you. If only for a few days. Just because they are releasing you doesn’t mean that you’re 100%.”

“Mummy? Mummy.”

“It doesn’t have to be at my place, if you’re not – if you’re uncomfortable with that.”

“Mummy.”

Tom continues to talk, the both of you ignoring Max’s insistent interruptions, though Tom has the benefit of not having the source mere inches away from his face. “I can – sleep on the sofa at yours? Or – even make the drive each day if that sounds…”

“Mummy! Mummmmy! I have somefing to give you!”

The sudden absence of weight on your lap is what pulls your attention back to Max. He is scrambling down the bed towards Tom. For a moment you are absolutely sure he’s going to launch himself off the bed and into Tom’s arms. Just before taking flight Max stops and leans against the railing, stretching out one arm towards his father and wiggling his fingers before clenching his fist in a silent _gimmie_  command.

As soon as Tom pulls the piece of manila construction paper from his pocket Max falls still, his whole three and a half year old being focused on the folded up page in his father’s grip. Tom leans forward, keeping the paper just out of reach, “Maximilian James Hiddleston, do you remember your promise this morning?” As Max nods Tom finally hands over the page, first watching as Max accepts the page, then observing his son’s careful progress back up the bed to collapse into your arms again. Tom mirrors your wince as Max plops down into your lap, chuckling under his breath. “ _Gently._ ”

“What do you have for me, munchkin?”

Max carefully unfolds the construction paper revealing not artwork, as you expect, but words – crudely drawn, but words all the same. It’s a good thing you’re no longer hooked up to the heart rate monitors, because they’d be emitting sporadic noises in this moment. You look up at Tom for further explanation – answers he provides as he readies the three of you for departure. “Our little wordsmith wanted to write you something. We’ve been practicing. Something to do when we bore of drawing dinosaurs…”

Max’s words are accompanied by writing by someone else’s hand. You recognize the slender scrawl belonging to Tom instantly. A letter to you, written by them both. Max’s words, a few letters written backwards, are enough to bring the prickle of tears to your eyes. You don’t yet trust yourself to read the note from Tom. What could it possibly say that you haven’t witnessed firsthand in the days since you were admitted? You’ll read it – over and over again – when you don’t have an impressionable young mind waiting to absorb your every reaction.

You lift your hand to trail your fingers through Max’s slightly stiffened curls and bend to place a light peck on the crown of his head. Then comes looking at his father. Your reply is hardly perceptible, a near whisper that is almost lost to the whoosh of the air conditioner. “My place? Can we – can it be my place?”

Either way – his place or yours – the pair of you will have to survive associated memories. Tom pauses in sweeping belongings up to smile at you and nod. Again you feel the tinge of guilt in your system. He’s been stationed in the stiff hospital chairs since your admittance… but you  _know_  there would be no resting if you tried to do so at his place, particularly not in the bedroom. Your brain would barrage you with the memory of what had happened there. Maybe once you’ve regained the feeling of normalcy, once the pair of you have figured out how to interact with one another again – maybe then you will be able to spend lengths of time within those four walls again.

“When the nurse arrives with the wheelchair and the paperwork we can…”

You cut Tom off with a sharp shake of your head, “I’m walking out of here.”

Tom studies you, lips pursed for a moment, before speaking. “No… I’ve seen the list of medicines they’re requiring. And all the careful instruction.  _Light_ activity. We want to see you better.”

“Translating to no marathons. I can walk down to the car, Tom.”

It isn’t that you’re falling back into the established habit of arguing with him, but that you  _need_  the activity after being cooped up for so long. It isn’t much – a short walk, all things considered – but Tom won’t budge on the matter. Max casts the deciding vote, mostly by insisting that he ‘get to ride too’, as though it were an amusement park ride.

As Tom guides the chair towards the lift he bends, shoulder bag hanging askew, to murmur into your ear: “See? Not so hard, being agreeable, sometimes.” Rather than reply you reach up, find his hand on the wheelchair handle grip, and give him a light pinch on his wrist before settling your fingers over his.

 


	9. Becalm

 

**T** he clang of pots and pans rouses you, the sounds of movement from your kitchen pulling you from your much needed sleep long before you really should be leaving the dream world. You extract yourself from the bed, bemoaning the fact that your son inherited the early morning gene from his father, as well as the decision that had placed said man in your kitchen making the aforementioned ruckus. This is not the path towards restfulness – the goal that had been the reasoning behind allowing Tom to spend additional time in close proximity after your release from the hospital. Closer proximity, at any rate.

You test your voice on your way out of the bedroom, avoiding a glance in the bureau mirror. If you look anything close to the way you feel you’re better off blissfully unaware. Your throat still protests being used, still sore from all the coughing and tubes despite all the many cups of soothing liquids Tom has served up over the past two days. There is still a raspy quality to your voice, the gravel apparently sticking with you for yet another day.

Walking into the kitchen ready to scold, you find Tom at the stove – but he isn’t the source of the noise. It is Max, seated in the floor at Tom’s feet – stationed closer to the sink than the stove – that is the culprit. Son is playing with his own set of pans while father attends to the ones filled with food and subjected to heat.

The ability to plate a complete meal without anything going cold always was a talent of his… Another random detail unforgotten. Even with his son underfoot he seems to be on track for pulling off his magic. You stand beyond the threshold to the room, just out of sight, taking a minute to enjoy and absorb the scene. The kitchen is a bit of a mess but his fastidiousness will translate to it being clean before he abandons the room and turns that focus towards the rest of the day. That much about him will never change.

One of your kitchen towels hangs from Tom’s back pocket, another draped over his shoulder. Perhaps, you assume, his helper is the reason for the use of more than one dishtowel? You’re sure to get the full report sooner or later. The next thing you spot out of place is a wooden spoon, abandoned on the counter top, though close at hand. Tom is occupied with the eggs, using a spatula to scoot them around the pan, so what is the spoon for?

“Mummy!” A dull gong of metal on metal follows the outburst. You’ve been spotted. Max launches himself up off the floor, arms outstretched to show his desire for a hug. He, too, has a wooden spoon – his isn’t abandoned but clutched within his left hand.

As you scoop Max into your arms you chuckle out a greeting, “Good morning, munchkin.”

He grips the back of your neck with his free hand and spins, half attentive to you, half focused on his father. “Don’t worry Mummy. I’ll protect you from the pirate.”

“A pirate? In my kitchen?” Curious but happy to play along, you follow Max’s eye line to focus on his father.

Tom gives you a short nod, clearly pleased to find you smiling. He reaches over to claim his own spoon, the spatula he had been using already released to sit on the provided plate on the counter. “A pirate  _captain_ , no less.” He winks before continuing, “But Max, mate. It isn’t the beautiful siren that needs protection from me.  _We’re_  the ones in danger, you and I.”

That gives Max pause. He wiggles in your arms, turning his head to look from one parent to the other. His Mum – a danger? He can’t quite reason that out, despite his father’s insistence, even if it is just playacting.

“She’ll capture us with her song, mate. Well – it’s too late for me.” He lifts his spoon up and considers the handle before pointing it in your direction, “I’ve been under her spell since the first I heard her voice.”

You shake your head gently from side to side, the rasp as you laugh unmistakable. There is no magical pull to your voice at the moment, that’s for sure. “Perhaps today you’ll find yourself able to escape me.” Poor Max is still puzzled, his planned opponent apparently not game for swordplay. You plant a kiss on his cheek before stooping to set him down again, “Maybe you can have a swordfight with the captain after breakfast. Can we clean up the floor in the meantime?”

Max heaves a sigh greater than one would expect from a three and a half year old, but nods and trudges towards his scattered ‘treasures’. Tom watches Max for a moment to be sure he won’t be ambushed and then looks to you, his expression gaining the tinge of concern. “You’re up early. How are you feeling? I’ve the kettle on. Would you like some tea?”

The clang of a pot comes at just the right time. You tilt your head in indication, “Well – I had to come investigate.” Pressing your fingertips to your throat, you try to clear it. The action doesn’t do much to help the rough quality of your voice when you speak. “Tea sounds great. But I can manage it. You focus on breakfast.”

A quick glance tells you that Max isn’t exactly doing as asked. He’s pushing the pans to the side of the room rather than picking them up. It’s a task he rushes through before he turns his attention to the chairs around the table. He has his mouth held firm, supreme concentration apparently necessary to lift his booster out of its usual position beside your chair.

The little mischief maker is up to something… something Tom has yet to notice. He has his back turned again, half frowning at the stovetop. “It  _was_  supposed to be breakfast in bed…”

Ruefully, you begin a muttered comment as you fiddle with the wooden box containing your tea supply. “I haven’t had breakfast in bed since Jack tried serving me panca…”

Another clatter of metal echoes through your house but this time it isn’t Max who is the culprit. Tom has gone stiff at the stove, the pan of eggs dropping from his grip. You falter and let the thought die, fumbling with the lid to the tea box. You hadn’t told Tom about Jack. Nobody knew about Jack – well, save for Isabetta. She had encouraged it, spotting the chance for an emotional release during a night out two years ago. Though you’d desperately needed the night of fun, the cost in the morning kept you from ever repeating the scenario.

All the play is gone from Tom’s voice, his movements precise as he plates the eggs. “Who’s Jack?”

“Who’s Jack, Mummy?” The miniature version of Tom chirps, repeating his father’s query. Oh no. Max thinks it is a game.

“Ah,” you flip open the tea box and make a show of inspecting your options, “a friend.”

It isn’t Max you’re watching out of the corner of your eye, but Tom. Tom who is carefully turning off the stove and moving the hot pans to unused burners. You try to clear your throat again, without much success. The supply of Tom’s favorite tea is depleted. No wonder he’s awake so early. That – and sleeping on an unforgiving sofa vs a comfortable mattress.

And now you’ve hit him with this. You feel a pang of guilt. You’ll explain to Tom later – later, when there aren’t watchful eyes and ears to gather every dirty detail.

Max may be repeating his father’s question, but Tom has fallen silent. As focused as you are on making your tea, you don’t notice Tom approach until he’s right behind you and reaching around your body to retrieve his empty mug. He keeps his eyes downcast, fixed on his mug as he speaks, his voice low and tinged with something that screams to you:  _warning!_  “When?”

You don’t want to get into it here but Tom has you cornered by the sink. You have no choice but to offer an answer. “It was only once.”

When he abandons the pretense of making tea, turning and look at you, it is with the eyes of the man waiting for the next argument, ready for the next set of wounding words. There will be no swordplay after breakfast, not now. “When?”

You nod, an unspoken agreement that more will be said later to clear the elephant once again standing between the pair of you. You keep your voice as low as you can to attempt to keep Max from overhearing what needs to be said. “Two years ago. Just the once.”

The pair of you stand inches apart but not speaking for a prolonged moment. It gives you an intimate view of the effect of your words. He has no right to be angry. No right, and yet you can see it there, right under the ache. It draws a similar reaction from you. 

“Mummy. Daddy. Come! Eat!” Max can sense the shift in the room, even if he can’t understand the why behind the change in atmosphere.

Tom steps back and wipes a weary hand over his face. Just like that his expression changes. It lacks the warmth that it had earlier, but Tom smiles. His eyes linger on your face as he turns but he is careful to have the smile set before he fully spins to respond to his impatient son. “Alright Maximilian, mate. We’re coming.”

_You are so thoroughly tangled in the sheets that you give up your first attempt at getting out of bed, instead flopping back onto your back and rolling to stare through the break in the curtains at the world beyond. The sun is up. It begs the question: how early is it?_

_There’s humming and other assorted noises coming from the kitchen. Cupboard doors are being opened and closed. Tom is up and moving about. Ever the morning person. You stretch and slowly try to extract yourself from the bedsheets._

_The haze of sleep starts to fade, allowing memory to return._

_Last night had been a Girls Night with Isabetta. And this - this is certainly not the view from Tom’s bedroom window. You don’t live with Tom anymore. Tom had cheated on you. Cheated. You’d moved out. Tried to move on – except that you’d been pregnant with his son. Your son, now a few months past one and surprising you daily. And Max? Max is with his father at the moment. With Tom – something you simply cannot manage anymore. Even the shortest of time spans spent in his presence is too much._

_As you roll onto your back again you’re helpless to keep from making noise. Anger is the culprit – mostly directed at Tom – and sorrow that life has taken such a turn. You’d wanted… Well, certainly not this cycle of anger and grief._

_Closing your eyes against the pain doesn’t help much. Everything that assails you is currently internal. You press the palms of your hands over your eyes and hold them there, fighting to find footing after the heartache caused by your momentary lapse in memory._

_Girls Night out. Isabetta had talked you into engaging with the charming stranger that had sent drink after drink to your table. She’d shooed you from your seat with her at the bar and towards the unknown. Her daring statement: **What’s the harm? Have a bit of fun.**  – only fueling your adventure._

_She’s been helping you to pick up the pieces of your life. You decided to indulge her a bit – after all, it was she that had been making the run to the store for more ice cream when you found the bottom of yet another pint. Heaven help her, she’s held her tongue for the most part, only twice in the few months since the Year One Disaster telling you: **I told you so**._

_Jack. Jack had been his name. The stranger that had been buying the pair of you drinks. Dark hair, eyes, and skin, he was everything that Tom wasn’t. Except for being tall. That, they shared. And the ability to make you laugh. And moan._

_That thought makes you sit up again, the room swimming just a bit. The bed is rumpled beyond your abilities – the fitted sheet almost removed from two of the four corners. Then there’s your state of undress to consider._

_Jack had certainly served his purpose as distraction from your Hiddleston woes but now… You’re not ready to start something new with anyone. It’s only been a little over two years since you moved out of Tom’s place. You can’t even consider it a clean break with him – not with Max in the mix._

_So what is this? You can only call it what it is: a one night stand._

_You stumble getting out of bed, tripping over a hastily discarded shoe from the night before as you scurry towards the bureau to find the additional needed clothing. The humming from the other room stops in response to the noise you’re making._

_Then comes the Scottish burr, the deep timbre of Jack’s voice eliciting pleasurable goosebumps over your skin in response. “Morning. You’ve got syrup here, love?”_

_You can’t pull on a pair of pants fast enough, suddenly wishing you hadn’t thrown out the robe you used to own. That particular item of clothing had been tarnished by memories you couldn’t force your way past. You just hadn’t yet gotten around to replacing it. “Yes? Um. Above the paper towel rack. Top right shelf.” You pause after turning towards the bedroom door and lift your hand, covering your mouth and standing there shaking your head for a moment._

_It had been fun last night – a much needed release. And to think, someone actually **wanted**  you. But in the morning light --- your misstep this morning in terms of memory speaks volumes. You’d been happy with Tom, and though Max certainly hadn’t been planned at that point … Damn Tom for cheating. Damn him!_

_Seeing Jack humming happily over the griddle helps to distract from your anger. You’ll leave that to consume you later, after he’s gone. Right now you need to explain things – over a breakfast you hadn’t expected to wake up to. Enjoy the company of the man now smiling at you. Jack is a good man who doesn’t deserve to be used like this... Your body is indifferent to the guilt you feel. It just wants more of the same treatment it received last night._

_“Good morning.”_

_“This is ok, I hope?”_

_As he motions to the plates of pancakes you follow his movement with your eyes. You nod slowly as you reply, easing closer but not quite moving all the way to stand by his side. “It’s unexpected. But good, unexpected in a good way.”_

_Your hesitation is evident. He motions to one of the chairs at the table. He doesn’t rush to pull it out for you, but you don’t doubt the fact that he would if you gave him half a chance. “We touched on it last night but…“ He tilts his head towards the askew highchair that had been hastily pushed into the corner of the room. “You and the father—“_

_“Are **over**.” Oh goodness that came out a bit harsher than needed._

_Jack nods, “Or I’d not be here. What I mean is – judging by the jars of baby food in the fuaradair… It was recent, the end.” He pauses when you make a face, a quick motion of his hands to accompany his words. “No accusations. Just curiosity. Am I the first you’ve brought home since?”_

_Cautiousness and embarrassment fight for first chair. You settle for a mixture of the two as heat rushes to your cheeks. “Why?”_

_“Love, if I’d known that I would have tried harder to catch you in bed this morning. Spoil you further.”_

_Cheeky. Very cheeky. You can’t help but laugh._

_You send Jack on his way home after breakfast. You hadn’t asked for his number. He took it better than you would have if the tables were turned. After that you are left to shower and try to work through your emotions in a cleaning dervish that has your place sparkling in no time. It’s a sorry attempt to distract yourself from the next event of the day that will surely leave you reeling: Tom’s arrival to bring Max home._

_He’s on time, as he always is, which only seems to make it worse. You hate him for the way his keys jingle within his fingers as he shoulders the diaper bag and scoops your giggling son from the car. You hate him for the way he slams the door with a nudge of his hip and readies himself for the walk up to your door. You hate the way he struts, baby and bag in tow, the bulky diaper bag hanging from him as naturally as any appendage. You hate the way he stops just at the edge of the stoop where you stand watching events unfold, careful to honor your wish/demand that he never so much as step foot on the ledge before your home ever again. Most of all it’s the way he looks at you... At least, when you haven’t said something to drive a nail into his heart. The way his eyes plead – and the way it makes you feel. Apathy would be so much easier._

With breakfast cleared and the renegade pirate convinced to settle in the other room watching his favorite cartoon adventure you begin the exhausting task of telling Tom about Jack without revealing more than absolutely necessary. Not that he’s really listening to your attempts at being gentle.

Conditions are less than ideal for the conversation that is held at a harsh whisper. “When, exactly, two years ago?”

For some reason he seems to think knowing every last detail will make it easier to bear. You know differently. “You can stop with that look of mortal wounding right now, Tom. It only happened the once. Past that, what does it matter?”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

You glare at him. “Fu---udge, Tom.” You peek around the corner to make sure little ears hadn’t picked up your near slip of the tongue. Max is still enthralled by the opening credits, swaying to the tune. Looking away wasn’t smart, though. Looking back at Tom just hurts all the more, his pain seemingly amplified upon the second viewing. You shake your head. “It won’t help, the knowing. But fine. You want details. But fine. You want details. Fine. After Max’s first birthday.” Oh you really don’t want to dive into that memory again. “I - it wasn’t a good time for me after that.”

“Right. Like my life was roses. How long after?”

“God, Tom. Let it go.”

“How long?”

You heave a sigh. “It was a month or two after. Like I said, just the one time.”

That detail should be all that matters. Shame Tom doesn’t seem to hear it. “All it takes is once. He could have recognized you from the tabloids. Been out for his 15 minutes.”

Documentation of your fights with Tom, of your prenatal sessions - yes. He has a point, as much as you hate to admit it. Internally. Admit it internally. You do your best to keep that acknowledgement from showing on your face. “It wasn’t like that.” Jack had never asked specifics as to who your ex was. It hadn’t lasted long enough to matter.

“Wasn’t it?”

You scowl, “Are you so egocentric that you can’t imagine that I would ever be attracted to someone else? Or that someone else might find me attractive?”

He sidesteps your questions, surprising you with the next one he utters. “Was Max in the house?”

He’s wounded from the shock of realization that you slept with someone after him. Jealous. Even jealous, such accusations are uncalled for. “Really? Really, Tom?!” You croak out his name and force yourself to pause to clear your throat again. It aches, just as you ache. The pair of you had been making progress.  It always seems to cycle back to anger. He has no right to try to make you feel guilty for seeking comfort in someone else’s arms. Not after what he did. “You’ve some nerve, asking me that.”

Tom keeps his mouth shut, the muscles at his jaw working furiously in a battle to keep from provoking you further. This is what the pair of you are good at now: hurting one another with a severity only words can muster.

But he’s waiting for an answer. Fine. “It was a night you had Max, you  **ass**.”

That almost seems to hurt more than the idea that you’d brought someone home with Max under the same roof. Tom exhales before speaking again. It’s a short rush of breath that is followed by a careful utterance. Seven little words out of his mouth and it steals the fight from you. “I thought you were better than me.”

You blink up at him, unable to guard against the sting of his words and the sudden weariness that demands you sit. You hold up your hands palms forward as you step away from the corner of the room where the pair of you had been locked in conversation. “I’m going to go check on our son. Go home. Isabetta can take over keeping an eye on me starting tomorrow.”

Max keeps his eyes glued to the television as you approach but when you sit down on the sofa behind him he gets up from his station on the floor and climbs into your lap, snuggling close. You trail your fingers through his curls before planting a kiss atop his head. It’s difficult to say how many times you’ve watched this movie with him. Right now you really only register movement on the screen, not the scene nor the characters present. You refuse to turn your head to watch Tom cross the room, afraid that it will be the exact moment he glances your way as he passes between the sofa and the television to snag his bag on the way to the door.

He’s doing as you wish, yet again. Does that hurt more, or less? He accompanies the sound of the door opening with a grunt of frustration, or disgust. The sound of the door closing behind him enables you to move again – though all you do is shut your eyes and do your best to keep breathing normally. No falling apart with your son in your arms. That’s not allowed. You’ll not allow it of yourself.

Two days of resisting the pull of memories trying to drag you back into the churning waters that you’ve occupied for the past few years. The pair of you had managed to keep the barbed comments restrained - or, if loosed, managed to let them pass unanswered. Two days of treading water isn’t half bad. A record for the pair of you. But then you faltered, revealed something Tom had no hope of ignoring. 

It’s not just irritation with Tom over wanting to know the details that you’re trying to overcome right now, nor anger over the words tinged with jealousy that he’d flung in your face. Its anger and irritation focused inward. The pair of you had managed to keep from fighting for two whole days and then you fucked it up. 

Well done, you. 

Max is speaking some of the lines of the scenes as they occur. Your little parrot. That helps to pull a fraction of a smile from the depths. Something you don’t hear – the slam of the car door, or revving of the engine to signal Tom’s departure. Perhaps you’d missed it? Been too focused on the surge of self-loathing to note the goings on outside your immediate vicinity.

You and Max both jump when the front door reopens, mother and son turning to watch Tom stride back inside. He presses his palm flat the the wooden surface to shut it behind him once more. He doesn’t say a word, just stops in the entryway and stares at you, tilting his head towards the hallway. 

**_Come here and talk to me_** **–** his mannerisms say –  ** _Or I’ll come in there and interrupt Max’s cartoons._**  

Without waiting to see your response he takes the few steps to fall out of view, leaving you to sit and sauce out your next move. You feel Max’s fingers curl, the lightest of movements over your forearm. It doesn’t take much longer than that to know what you’re going to do. You shift to be able to lift Max from your lap and place him onto the cushions beside you. He gives you a moment’s curious glance before turning back to his cartoons again, grinning openly at the screen. If only your own heart could be so quickly swayed.

Rounding the corner to face Tom, his name is all you can manage before he starts to speak, taking a step closer to you when you stop short. “You told me to leave, I know. I’m telling you:  **No**. Enough. I’ve had enough of you sending me away. If you want to be angry with me, be angry with me. But be  **with**  me. Work through it with me, and I’ll do the same with you.” 

His eyes flick back and forth as he focuses on your face, on the emotions you’re revealing. He seems determined to catch every thought that passes behind your eyes. 

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. I didn’t mean … which doesn’t make it…”

“I told you it wouldn’t help. Knowing.” As soon as you say it you have a sour taste in your mouth. So close to Isabetta’s many  **I told you so** -s. How she came to say it so often without feeling similar is a wonder.

Tom is struggling, whatever speech he had planned is now derailed for his want to say everything while he can. He’s – he’s afraid you’ll throw him out again. That’s the reason he came back in without his bag. It’s a valid fear, a pattern well established.

“There’s so much to apologize for, we could stand here for days and I mightn’t make a dent in the list. Or, worse, add to it rather than subtract.”

You almost nod. That’s a worry that you share. It’s certainly not the first time that you’ve entertained that same thought. The pair of you need to relearn how to interact without each trying to strike at one another.Heartrending though the experience would undoubtedly be, it would be the only way to avoid further Jack moments.

“You said you forgave me, before. That you still loved me, despite it all. Do you love me enough to keep forgiving me?”

He’s standing as close as he dares, closer than normal conversation between two individuals – but he has yet to reach out to completely close the distance, to so much as touch you. It’s the fear of how you might react right now, probably – that you would recoil from him just as you have so many times before.

“Love, Tom, was never the problem. Even when I told you otherwise.”

He seems a bit crestfallen by your answer. Maybe it was the delivery, tied to the low levels of anger still stewing within you.

You don’t bother trying to argue against his point. You’ve done it ever since coming home to find him with  **her**  – done everything in your power to stay beyond reach, withdraw as far as possible. Whenever temptation arose to allow things to settle between the pair of you, you would find reason to ignore the urge – even going so far as purposefully provoking him in the name of maintaining the status quo. What might happen if, instead of running from him, you try to reengage?

You nod over your shoulder, half turning back towards the main room where hand-drawn animals beckon to you with singsong cheer. "Come on. I know Max will enjoy the company... If you think you can stomach another hour and a half of this for the millionth time over.”  You’ll send him home tonight. Two days of near constant interaction had been enough, too much. But the duration of the movie, just to get things started again? That – yes – that you can probably manage.

Tom doesn’t even hesitate.


	10. Borrowed Trouble

 

He’s cycled through the pep talk a few times during the day, but once more during the drive to Isabetta’s can’t hurt. Unavoidable, really, this umpteenth attempt at easing his nerves. Izzy has agreed to watch Max for a few hours during this first date night – one he hopes will open the door to more. It’s not that it was as a surprise that Izzy agreed – she loves Auntie Betta time – but her agreement came with a single stipulation: that Tom, alone, would be the one to drop Max off. He can only guess that it means that she wants to discuss something with him without her best friend being present. His imagination soars with possibilities as to the subject matter. Izzy used to be his friend too, before. These days Izzy treats him with a coolness that can only be considered cordial if squinted at from a distance.

Being fair- he hurt her best friend. More than hurt. Betrayed. His own battles with his guilt, showing remorse, fighting to regain the heart of the woman he loves – none of that will ever factor into the way Isabetta sees him. He will forevermore be the cheating scoundrel. Perhaps she faces her own guilt over having introduced them.

Max’s excitement over spending some extended time with Auntie Betta is impossible to ignore. The babble from the backseat doesn’t cease during the short ride between dwellings, not that it serves to much distract him from his internal worries. After dropping Max off and facing whatever Isabetta has to say to him, he’ll hurry back the few blocks to make his way up to the stoop he’d previously been barred from – ready to begin date night. They’ve got to start somewhere, after all.

He’s just got to run this gauntlet first.

They’ve done so well lately – he and Max’s mother. Sure, they still have their moments of being at one another’s throats, but they’ve held to the promises made – that they’d both make more an effort to work through the problematic moments together rather than shoving each other away. When he finally gathered enough courage to ask, she’d said yes to this – to just the pair of them spending some time. Progress. Progress.

The child safety locks on the backdoors of the car are the only thing preventing Max from launching out of the vehicle before Tom can shift fully into park. His little Houdini is not one to wait. Having mastered extracting himself from his booster seat without assistance, Max is already on to saucing out an escape route from the car. Max is halfway through the opening between the front seats before Tom can turn to press his fingers into the buckle and attempt to remove his own seatbelt.

“Woah, mate! Wait. Let’s wait and exit…”

Max doesn’t pay him much mind, still clambering over the gearshift and into the front seat. There is no reasoning with a nearly four year old, not that that knowledge ever stalls him from trying. Tom smiles, the antics of his son momentarily distracting him from the looming conversation with Isabetta. Tom rushes to extract himself from the car and be ready to catch Max.

Over short distances it is hard to say who is faster. Tom benefits from his long stride, but Max – Max’s overabundance of energy and willingness to hurdle himself headfirst in any given direction make the outcome a tossup. Though in a residential area, Tom scoops Max into his arms, unwilling to take the chance that Max will decide to launch himself towards the street at just the wrong moment.

Isabetta is waiting for them in the doorway when Tom turns to approach the dwelling. Not unlike Max’s mother, at least until recently, Izzy watches them with a wariness – her welcoming smile focused mostly on Max. “Hello there, Monster. I’ve missed you.”

After closing half the distance to the door he gives up on carrying Max. The moment his son’s feet touch the ground the little being rockets towards Izzy’s front door. She’s experienced his full-force greetings often enough to know to crouch and be ready to intercept. After dutifully delivering a hullo hug Max squirms in Isabetta’s arms, ready for the next thing. “I brought Rex! Can we color first?”

“Sure, Monster.” Isabetta nods, giving Max a warm smile, “Let me just talk with your Dad first. Go on. You know where our coloring stash is.”

Tom waits until Max has bounded beyond the threshold, Isabetta having turned to watch his son’s progress towards the coffee table and the apparent drawer full of crayons and coloring pages, before attempting to start their conversation. “I – we can’t thank you enough for watching him for us, Izzy.”

Isabetta is still half turned, watching Max pry open the drawer to reveal his treasures. “I’m always here for her when she, or Max, needs me.”

The less-that-subtle meaning of her words implicating he isn’t. Her words are meant to bait him. So this is what she thinks of him now. Tom clenches his jaw, gnashing his molars together for a moment before exhaling. He was right in his reasoning as to why she demanded that he drop off Max unaccompanied. He hasn’t yet had this confrontation with Izzy. Evidently now that an attempt to reconnect is being made she has decided to speak her mind on her best-friend’s behalf. Izzy might have been his friend once, too, but that friendship had evaporated the day his life had imploded – the day he’d literally been caught with his pants down.

He gives his himself a shake, both to loosen the knot of tension between his shoulder blades and to clear away the memory trying to push its way to the forefront of his mind. The oh-so-familiar ill feeling associated with the event washes over him. He’ll never be free of it, no matter how many days pass him by.

“Thank you, for that.” He utters the words softly, not as a sarcastic thanks for bringing up the memory but an honest profession regarding the care of those they both love. It is recognition much deserved – something that he hadn’t thought to offer. Yet another of his sins.

Isabetta seems surprised by his tone, her expression mostly closed as she finally turns back to face him. “I don’t do it for you.”

“I know.” He waits, watching Isabetta’s face, knowing by the twitch of the corner of her mouth she’s trying to figure out how to proceed. Had she expected him to argue? Guilt ridden, he flicks his eyes away from hers to focus on his son. “I’m trying to be the man they deserve in their lives, Izzy, I promise.”

Perhaps it’s the use of her nickname that turns the point, helps to edge her over into making the decision to step forward and join him outside – beyond ear reach. “Tom,” Isabetta waits for the glass door to fully close, taking another glance over her shoulder to check on Max before continuing. With his attention completely devoted to coloring the pages on the table before him, she turns back and forges on, “Have you stopped even once to consider if it’s the right thing to do?”

He blinks at her, his mouth held slightly ajar. Has her opinion of him sunk so low? He swallows, faltering over where to begin. “Izzy…”

“Hang on,” she holds up one hand, ready to vent it all now that she’s made up her mind to say it. “I’ve seen how much effort you’ve been putting into this. And after all of it she’s willing to give you the chance to – but you…”

She stops just short of saying what he fears she will. The thought that plagues him: _that he_ _doesn’t deserve them_.

“Tom, I was the one that noticed she was pregnant, and then took her to buy the test to confirm it. I hatched the plan with her – the best way to break the news to you. We were both so excited, both for the news and our cleverness. The surprise with the shoes and…”

It is information never revealed to him, questions he hadn’t dared ask despite an intense desire to know. He does his best to stay immobile before Isabetta even as his insides begin to crumble. It’s the benefit of the railing beside him that keeps him upright, his knuckles aching from his hand being clenched so tightly around the thin metal.

She continues, unaware of the effect of her words. “And _then_ I was the one to get an unintelligible phone call. I couldn’t believe it, when I could finally understand what she was trying to get out, through the sobs. God, and then I spent days trying not to fall asleep for fear that my best friend would give in to her grief and do something rash. Weeks of worrying and doing my best to help her come back from the brink. She did. She did but…” Isabetta puckers her lips and shakes her head, “Oh I wanted to do more than just hang up every time you called.”

In that she wasn’t exaggerating. Every. Time. Every bloody time he called for a while there. A mutual friend had taken pity and revealed the contact number so he could at least try – there had been a click of the phone being picked up and then the click of the line going dead again. Every time. Well – save for the first when he’d heard a half-inhalation and short shuffle before the click. It had been the smallest glimmer of hope… that very first call where someone had answered and almost spoken to him. Had that been Izzy? No – no Izzy had probably grabbed the phone from her heartbroken friend and monitored the caller ID readout from then on. At least until the cursing him out began.

 “I wanted to – to strangle you! March over and – I knew no good would come from confronting you, despite the laundry list of things I wanted to say. I needed to be there for her, not indulge my hatred for you and what you’d done. You _destroyed_ her, Tom.”

He waits, letting Isabetta exhaust herself. She’s held it in long enough, and anyway, there isn’t any answer he can offer. Not at the moment. Any apology he uttered would fall on deaf ears if offered now.

“I still can’t believe, well, it doesn’t matter. Things have turned out the way they have. We all survived it. All have dealt with it in our own ways. She’s willing to allow you close again, heaven knows why. I certainly wouldn’t. But it wasn’t me that you cheated on. I felt betrayed, too, but it wasn’t my heart or my life impacted by your asinine need to...”

Forevermore the cheating scoundrel.

“You promise to be the person they deserve in their lives. That’s – that’s good. Why you couldn’t have done that from the start? Been the person we all thought…” She falters and her words fizzle, finally. In a long exhale she ends the purge of all that she had apparently kept bottled. Isabetta gives him a nod, “Look, I just… It needed to be said.”

She’d needed to vent, needed to finally speak her mind. He licks his lips to unlock his voice. “I know, Izzy.” He works hard to keep any edge from his voice. He works his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead for a moment. Everything she’d said was something he needed to hear. His bitterness, every inch of emotion swirling inside him at the moment isn’t directed at Isabetta but in response to the truths she had aimed at him. It takes another breath to continue. Still unable to trust himself to remain rooted to the spot of his own accord, he maintains his vice-like grip on the railing. “I ask myself why a lot.”

His statement hangs between them. This is a friendship that will never grow back to what it was, he can see that clearly. He can’t hold her gaze, glancing aside again to focus on the blonde curls gracing his son’s head. The first trip to the barber had been an adventure. Max had been convinced that the man was intent on taking his ears. Tom had slipped into a chair but even a visual example hadn’t allayed Max’s fears. In the end Tom had held Max in his lap, the barber forced to lean around father to attend to the son.

Realizing he’d become lost in thought he clears his throat, looking back to Izzy again. “I wish I had answers, for all of us. And more than mere words. I know how much they mean, how much promises mean, once you’ve lost the ability to trust. For what it’s worth, I haven’t um, haven’t forgiven myself, even though she says she has.”

Izzy harrumphs. Evidently that bit of news had been shared between friends. Isabetta’s annoyance almost makes him smile.

“As for –” he waves his unanchored hand between the pair of them, “We both know you were just telling me things I needed to hear.”

Movement from within the house draws his gaze again. Max is making a beeline for the door, his mouth held firm, his features twisted into a scowl not unlike those that frequent his mother’s brow. Isabetta turns when Tom nods past her, opening the glass door before little fingers can add prints to the clear surface.

Max stops just before crossing the threshold, giving his father the stink eye and adding a little dramatic flail of his fists as he speaks. “Daddy! Mommy is _waiting_!”

“She is. Yes, yes she is.” Tom manages to pry his hand loose from the railing to duck down and hold his arms out as he replies. “One more hug and I’ll be off, then.” Max scrunches up the collar of his shirt in his fist when he wraps his arms around Tom’s neck, the telltale pull of the fabric over his back alerting Tom to the fact. As he releases Max he gives his son a little pat on the rear, “Be good for Aunt Isabetta, little man.” Max nods and then giggles as he turns about and dashes back to his coloring station.

Isabetta, just as entertained by Max’s response as Tom, smirks as she watches Max retreat into the house. “Monster’s equivalent to agreement.”

“The best we’ll get until he’s older. Probably. Thank you again, Izzy.”

There’s the twitch to the corner of her mouth. Another thought almost released before she curbs it. They don’t say much more to one another until Tom is almost to the car. Isabetta calls after him, still standing before the door to the house. “Tom?”

He pauses, hand on the cool metal of the car, waiting to hear what she might have to add as an afterthought as afternoon turns to evening.

“This second chance? Don’t muck it up.”

It’s the closest thing to a blessing he’ll get from her.

He has the short ride between the two houses to get his head on straight for the impending date night. He’s planned meticulously. It is a restaurant that doesn’t have any bad memories attached. He’s checked and double checked the menu against any allergies. Dinner will go well. It _will._

He jingles the car keys in his pocket as he walks up the pathway towards the front door, watching the segments of the path as they pass before his feet – looking but not really seeing them for the beautiful bits of stone they are. He’ll drive them there, and if they decide to order drinks then they’ll either call for a car to drive them home or he’ll just limit his intake and hope she’ll be willing to stick around until he’s decent to drive them home again. Or just go without drinking along with her. They’ll just have to play that bit by ear.

He almost pauses at the bottommost stair of the stoop, an old habit now hard to break. He rings the bell and actually does stall his steps on the welcome mat before turning the knob to enter. She’d given instruction to just come on in after dropping Max off but they’re still in the early stages of this. Announcing his presence via the bell just seems… proper.

“Tom? Back here!” He can hear the smile in her words as she calls out for him. Her voice echoes. She’s still in the master bathroom getting ready. “He behave on the ride over?”

Tom inhales the now-familiar scent of her place, the barest hint of her perfume floating in the air. She indicated her location so she must want him to come to her, but he walks with caution. “Talked the entire ride over.”

When he rounds the corner to look into her master bathroom he finds her laughing. It’s a welcome sight, one that helps in lifting his mood. “Hmm. Just who did he get that from?” She pauses in applying the last of her makeup, studying his reflection in the mirror. Her laughter dissipates and she turns to face him. “Is everything ok? What happened at Isabetta’s?”

At the moment, seeing her level of concern, it’s hard to imagine this woman to be the same one who had battled him so passionately over every attempt he made at connecting with her over the past few years. “Nothing that didn’t need to happen.” He inhales deeply again, letting a smile emerge upon exhaling. The scent of her perfume is stronger here, mingling with the residual hints of her shower and smell of dryer sheets. She’s watching him, waiting with her head tilted _just-so_. She’ll not budge until she gets an answer from him. “We’re all taking this one day at a time.”

She stares at him a moment longer. “That’s not an answer, Tom. Do we need to stop by her place on the way? Is it on the way to the restaurant?”

Tom twirls his fingers, indicating she should get back to applying her makeup in the mirror. “It’s not on the way, and no, we do not need to stop by Izzy’s. She and I. Our friendship…” His brain working overtime trying to process everything as she turns back to the mirror. How can he put it? No need to mince words, really. “I’ve been ordered not to fuck up by someone who cares for you a great deal.”

“Cares for…” she pauses applying mascara to blink and scoot her gaze to meet his in the mirror. She understands the unspoken meaning behind his choice of words. “Oh. Oh, Tom.”

He offers up a shrug, “I’m well aware some of our friends will never forgive me.”

She mutters as she stabs the mascara stick back down into its tube. “Oh I’m going to kill her. Before our date night? _Isabetta_! If I can…”

Her muttering devolves into something unintelligible as she turns away from the counter. Tom backs into the master bedroom to allow her passage, not realizing she’s headed for her purse until she snags it from the corner of the room and begins to rummage. Her phone. She’s intent on giving Isabetta a piece of her mind.

“Ah!” Tom steps to her and places his palm overtop of the opening of her bag, wrapping his fingers gingerly around her wrist to try to stall the retrieval of her phone. “Darling, let’s just enjoy our night.”

“She had no right!”

It’s an exclamation he doesn’t mind hearing from her. She’s taking up a battle on _his_ side for the first time in a very long time. Still… this is not how he envisioned this date night going. “She has every right. It was a conversation long overdue.” He can feel the racing of her pulse beneath the pads of his fingers. This is the closest they’ve been in a long while, and though her racing pulse is a result of her temper, he’s suddenly acutely aware of the proximity of her bed. Carefully, he releases her and steps away. “Can I – help with anything? Get your jacket, or ---?” It’s a sloppy redirect. He doesn’t bother trying for anything further.

For his efforts he is graced with an exasperated look from her. Is it over his reaction to Isabetta’s words or that he pulled away from her just now? Both? She sucks at her lower lip, giving her head a single slow shake. When she speaks her voice has leveled out again. “My jacket is in the other room. Go ahead out and start the car. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Tom counts out the seconds in taps on the steering wheel. She’s longer than a moment. Longer than three moments. When she hasn’t appeared four minutes later he’s nearly to the point of saying _fuck it_ , walking right back inside, grabbing her wherever she stands, and kissing her hard until neither of them remember anything about a godforsaken restaurant. He’s got a grip on the keys in the engine when she appears on the stoop. The hesitant smile she gives him, coupled with the fluttered wave of her fingers before she turns to lock the door pauses him mid-action. He remembers that look from all those years ago when they first started dating. She’s just as nervous right now as he is.

When she opens the door he leans in his seat to better see her, “Everything alright?”

While in the process of settling into the seat beside him she smiles sheepishly, “Might’ve sent Isabetta a text or two before coming out here.”

He should have expected as much. “Mmm.” He tries to stop the comment before it slips out, unsuccessfully. “Because that’ll help her opinion of me. I went straight to you and ratted her out. Not that I wouldn’t have told you, or that you didn’t already _know_ her low opinion of me…” He heaves a sigh and leans forward, resting his head on the steering wheel with an audible _thunk_. “I didn’t mean to phrase it that way. As an accusation.” He blinks at the dashboard, only allowing himself to watch her movements loosely in his peripheral vision, “If only she’d chosen a different damn night.”

“That’s more or less what I said to Isabetta.”

The ding of her phone makes him sit up in his seat again and cast a disdainful look at the device held in her lap. The illuminated screen holds a message he can’t decipher from this angle, but he can probably guess in one who it is from. Car still humming, he tries to shake himself from this funk and get the night back on track. He lifts his gaze slowly. He’s almost afraid to ask this next question – afraid of what her answer will be. “Do you want to reschedule?”

“No.” Her answer rejuvenates the smallest bit of hope within him. She reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze where he laid it to rest overtop of the gearshift when he sat up. “We made these plans. Isabetta already agreed to watch Max for us. Let’s go and enjoy dinner.”

Traffic seems unusually dense approaching the restaurant, not that she notices for typing away on her phone. More back and forth with Izzy? He chooses not to ask. At least leaving early battles back against the traffic slowing their progress. Reservation or no, if they’re late and someone else has been seated at their table… No, no he won’t entertain more problems before they make themselves known. This night _will_ go well. It _will._ Maybe if he says it enough he can will it to be true.

Then the slowly crawling traffic stops altogether and he sees the first sign indicating the problem. A burst pipe. Somewhere ahead of them an entire block has been cordoned off, all of the businesses shut down and traffic rerouted. Sinking feeling in his gut growing, he prays that his device doesn’t hold a message for him. It doesn’t, but it does nothing to ease his mood. Maybe they’ve just not finished sending out notices to those with reservations.

Was there a single thing that had gone right thus far? Well – he’d managed to dress himself for the evening without any mishaps.

The ill-at-ease feeling doesn’t leave him, even after edging past the cordoned off area and turning to follow directional signs up to the restaurant valet. He tries joking with her about it as they get out of the car. His tittered laugh sounds hollow, but she smiles regardless.

He watches her reactions closely as they enter the building. Her eyes twinkle as she takes in the décor. He’s chosen well. There’s a breath he can release. That’s two – no, three things in his favor for the night. He huffs internally for giving in to the urge to keep a tally. Until this odd feeling leaves him, he’ll continue to align everything into positives or negatives wherein the night is concerned. He does manage to beat out the waiter to help her remove her jacket, and to be seated. Ha! Take _that_ con column.

She does refuse the wine list, but seems to linger over the menu for mixed drinks. Tom offers her what he hopes is an easy smile, and to his relief she returns it. “What are you having, Tom?”

“That depends. Do you want to order drinks? Something before the meal?” _Or after._ His brain – ever so helpful in the matter of keeping the night on track. No. He won’t make any such assumptions about how the evening will be going by that time.

“I think – yes. If you’ll have something, too.”

Drinks and appetizers ordered – something fruity for her, something simple and neat for him, they attempt conversation. Easy topics that afford each of them neutral ground. They’ve gotten much better at this in the weeks since her release from the hospital. They’ve had time to figure out what is safe and what most definitely isn’t.

His funk has almost passed by the time the waiter reappears to check on their consumption of the appetizer and their drinks. The meal, they are informed, will be out shortly. With that news she excuses herself for the loo, and Tom watches her leave while absently tracing the stitching on the linen napkin positioned over his leg. They can manage this. He won’t force the issue, of course, but if she’s willing to perhaps agree to a date night or two a month? He’d like for more, but starting out with something that doesn’t overwhelm them with frequency seems a better idea…

She reappears and falls in behind their waiter whose tray is loaded down. The pair of them make slow progress towards the table where Tom is seated. He can see a second waiter also approaching with their refreshed drinks – of which he needs to tell them he’s done for the night. Decent timing on the part of the restaurant. Most likely well-rehearsed to impress the patrons. What had they ordered for dinner again? He’d only paid half a mind to the menu at the time.

As all parties meet at the table split second choices begin to compound. The waiter holding their drinks falters in his steps, noticing the vacant chair and then the customer intended for said chair approaching. Perhaps intent on helping her to her seat he sidesteps – right into the waiter holding their meals. As Tom watches the tray tips, tilting towards him, and the dishes begin to slide across the surface of the tray. Its folly, watched in slow motion, and inescapable. The dishes tipping the tray to the point the waiter loses his grip, dishes mounting the lip of the tray, ultimately tumbling towards him. He can’t scramble from his seat quick enough to avoid his front being covered from collar bone to kneecap.

And now they’re the center of attention for the entire restaurant, patrons and staff alike. At least this time it isn’t for shouts, waving hands, and pointed fingers – not from the pair of them anyway.

“Oh, Tom.” Her hands are covering her mouth, covering the smile he can see lighting up her face. “Oh Tom, your suit.” She barely gets the words out for laughing.

He has more than enough people attempting to help him wipe away sauces and odd food particles that refuse to join the rest of the meal now scattered at his feet. Glancing between her, her mirth becoming infectious, and the mess of his attire, he can’t help but chuckle. “Isn’t this half the reason we elected not to bring Max? He might’ve at least _partially_ missed me.”

He tries to wave some of the good-intentioned away. There’s nothing more they can do with water-dabbed napkins. They need to clear the area to allow for cleanup, besides. There’s no salvaging any part of the meal that had been intended for them. Rather than wait for the kitchen to rush through another plating of their order, allowing for more time for the stains to set on his clothing, they opt for a deferment of their reservation and quick exit.

His heart flutters a bit on the drive. With her still dressed for an evening out they have two options, one – he can dash into his place and change and they can be on their merry way. They might be able to find another somewhere to enjoy their night out. Perhaps not dinner, but an upscale exhibit they’d meant to visit before their lives went sideways? Or cocktails – or…

Or he can offer to cook for her. Save them additional driving? The problem is the location. Home. His home. The scene of the crime, as it were. All his careful planning and plotting and mapping – figuring out which restaurants in the city were a no-go for risky memories attached to them – all of that work was for naught when considering a meal at his place.

He floats it to her, testing her reaction to the suggestion in the dimly lit car. Mirth from unbelievable events at the restaurant gone, she’s quiet a moment longer than his heart can stand. When she finally does reply his heartrate has at least doubled. “Alright, Tom. Dinner at your place.”

Of course as soon as she accepts, his brain tosses up Izzy’s imagined reaction to hearing the news that they’d ended up at Tom’s place. Already convinced that he’s no longer worthy of her best friend, she would surely assume the worst: that he’d _planned_ on a late night at home with Max’s mum in the hopes of bedding her once more, so soon in the attempted reestablishment of their relationship.

His mouth immediately runs dry. “Or, I’ll just run in and change. We can drive around a bit more. See if we spot a place that sounds…”

“No. Let’s just go to your place. We need to get your clothes tended to or they’ll be ruined.”

She sounds resigned. Frustrated. She isn’t even looking at him or forward out the windshield, but out the passenger’s side window. In the pause afforded him by traffic he tries to read her expression in the reflection. “The clothes don’t – I can get another made.”

That comment pulls her back from wherever her mind had gone. She turns, reaching out to cross the invisible barrier between them that had established itself the moment they’d resettled into the car. “Of course you can. That’s not the point.” She gives his bicep a light squeeze and rests her hand there. It’s the most she’ll do since he’s driving. That had always been a rule, before. No distracting the driver. “We’re doing dinner at your place. End of discussion.”

She is resolved while he still frets. What will happen to their night, now? They’re walking into a minefield. If they can survive this, maybe, just maybe…

Why the hell hasn’t he moved? If reuniting with her had been the plan all along – why didn’t he just rid himself, and her, of the place that would always remind them both of what had happened?

He leads her up the walk, glad for leaving the light on to light the way. So many memories attempt to push forward. So many nights just like this where they’d stumbled home, laughing and telling each other stories. Or fumbling, holding each other tight, both knowing they probably wouldn’t make it to the bedroom.

Tom swats at those memories in particular. It’s been so long – and despite the desires he harbors he can’t, he _refuses_ to indulge himself in even a moment of those memories while she’s here tonight. As enticing as those pleasant memories are, they lead so easily to the memory of his betrayal. **No**. That is one memory he refuses to entertain tonight.

He pauses just inside the door, unsure of himself now that they’re both inside. To the kitchen first? Maybe offer her a drink while he’s changing? He has – well she probably remembers what he tends to keep on hand. That’s not changed in the years she’s been living elsewhere. Should he just head straight to the laundry? Does she need a play by play of his choices to explain his actions?

She edges past him, making the decision to head towards the kitchen while he waffles in the entryway. She gives him a gentle nudge forward with her palm, trailing her fingertips from the middle of his back across to his side, the feathered feeling of contact pure torture. “Change. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Tom swallows, almost reaching out to return the touch as she brushes past him. **No.** He shudders and, rather than watching her move through the house they used to share, busies himself with shedding layers – forcing his feet into motion. As he sheds layer after layer he examines the bits of cloth. The waistcoat is salvageable, having been mostly protected from the flying foodstuff by his dinner jacket. The rest of his attire, however – all ruined. The fine patterns of the material seem to have soaked every last bit of oils and sauce they could manage. He’ll see what professionals say on the matter, but to his eye…

Nevermind all that. She’s waiting for him in the kitchen for a meal he’s promised to prepare. He rushes to put on something comfortable and rejoin her. Careful to be decent before even thinking about setting foot beyond the bedroom door, he finds her leaning against the kitchen counter, two short tumblers sitting atop the island countertop, ice and a dash of clear liquid within them. A frosty bottle sits by the sink, nearer to the fridge, as though she couldn’t decide if she wanted to put it away or not.

He gives her a nod and claims one of the drinks as his own before busying himself with pulling ingredients out for their meal. There’s no conscious decision as to what to make for her, nor does he stop to ask. It’s a dish he knows she’ll like.

-

_Tom stares at the countertop, at the dishes and platters before him. By his estimation it is the hundredth version of the dish, something he can now make without consultation of the splotched and worn recipe card that contains her handwriting._

_Just who can he take it to this time?_

_The Curreys have politely asked that he stop – and the Howells – didn’t he take them two plates just yesterday? Or was that the day before? He’s worked his way down this side of the street, at any rate. Who was it again that had stopped answering the door?_

_There’s always his mum – but then he’d have to figure out how to explain to her **why** , exactly, he keeps making the dish. She knows well enough that it contains foods that he dislikes, or at least combinations he never used to favor. Nevermind the fact that he’d have to then settle in to hear her tutting and fussing over him. Less fussing than scolding, really. Plus the dish would certainly be cold by the time he arrived at her doorstep. _

_No. Mum is out._

_There’s Nigel. Wait, no, Nigel had stopped talking to him after details of what exactly he’d done had started filtering through their circle of friends. There were more than a few that had begged off socializing – couples and singles alike that no longer wanted anything to do with him._

_Frustrated, and suddenly overwhelmed by the delectable scent wafting around his kitchen, he lunges towards the counter, snatching up the dish of already plated food. He half-turns on his heel and hurls the offending chinaware, chicken and all, at the wall opposite. The impact is satisfactory, the crash and shatter of the plate combining with the splatter of marinara sauce. Little bits of rice stick to the wall, clinging to the sauce that mars the white walls of his kitchen in a gruesome mark of red._

_Impulsive, destructive action now passed, he heaves a few long breaths as he examines his handiwork. What had that accomplished other than providing further mess needing to be cleaned before he can shamble off to bed tonight? Did breaking that dish do anything productive? Now he’ll definitely have to throw out that bit of food for fear of shards of china hiding in what otherwise could have been nourishment._

_What a waste._

_He rounds the small island in the kitchen, avoids the chair he’d left pulled out from the table the night before, and begins the task of cleaning up the mess he’d just made. Easy enough still to scoop up the rapidly cooling food and chunk it in the rubbish bin. There are denser pockets still retaining enough heat to almost burn his palms as he goes about the task of cleaning up, but that pain is nothing compared to the rest of it. All of it is part of his penance._

_Picking one of the larger shards of plate off the floor, he sighs again. Now he’s down a place setting – not that he’s doing much entertaining these days. Longing suddenly makes his limbs seem leaden. **She’d** purchased these dishes in an effort to get him to quit eating right out of the containers the meal had been made in. Where had she gotten them? Would he be able to replace a single dish or need to purchase a whole new set? _

_Moving from his kneeling position to sit on his rump, he fights against the sting of emotion pricking at his eyes. None of that. He’ll just – he’ll make a note of it, and then next time he tries to call… After a month and a half of hang-ups she’d finally gotten to the point of allowing him a few words and updates on her condition. Of course those phone calls always ended the same way, a glorious: **FUCK YOU, HIDDLESTON** , before a slamming of the phone on her part. _

_Working his way up off the floor, he retrieves a dishcloth from near the sink, wets it, and begins the task of wiping down the kitchen wall. Certain bits are harder to scrub away than others._

_Why? Why chicken marsala? Why red sauce?! He didn’t even particularly like mushrooms!_

_Because._

_It had been her favorite._

-

“Tom!” Her short, hard spitting of his name breaks him out of his trance. “What, exactly, are you playing at?”

He pauses slicing the chicken from its package. “What?”

She is glaring at him, an all too familiar look, one he had hoped to escape tonight. She splays her fingers wide, palm up, motioning to the ingredients he had arranged on the island counter. “Since _when_ have you just _conveniently had_ all this in your kitchen?”

Once again his tone rises in response to hers, “Look. It’s just dinner.”

“No, it’s not _just dinner._ ” She flips her hand over to point more explicitly at the food he’s trying to prepare. “That’s chicken goddamned marsala. You balked every time I tried to make it!”

“I used to object to the mushrooms in it, sure but… If you don’t want it I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking it would be something we would be arguing over. I’ll, erm…” He lowers his gaze, weary and unsure what to do with the now opened package of uncooked chicken in his hands. “I’ll figure out something else for dinner.”

She’s quiet for a long moment – long enough that he risks glancing up at her again. She seems lost, as well. “You don’t even have the instructions out.” Hesitantly, she moves around the counter, no longer keeping her distance but coming within a pace of him. “You’ve got it memorized?”

If he didn’t have uncooked chicken in his hands he’d probably be burying his fingers in his hair, or massaging the back of his neck with the meat of his palm. “It – helped. Well. Not at first. But… I missed you.” He can’t look at her, can’t stand to see the tears forming in her eyes. He refocuses on the chicken again and clears his throat. “I um. I fiddled with it a bit. Your recipe.” It takes her reaching out to touch him, watching her fingers wrap around his forearm, to enable him to look away from the chicken held in his hands. “Would you like me to make you my version of your chicken marsala?”

His heartbeat is hammering so loudly that he hardly hears her quiet, “Yes, Tom. I would.”


	11. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some love is simple. A certain person appears in your life and that’s it. No more searching. For most it is messy; a complicated weighing of pros and cons - fights, blissful moments, and everything between, forcing you to decide what you can live with and what you can’t. When you met Tom you thought you were one of the former. And then? He cheated.

 

**T** he sounds of Max playing in his bedroom rebound easily down the hallway to reach your location in Tom’s kitchen. Technically it used to be your kitchen, too. That thought brings about the familiar hitching within your chest, the stutter of your heart and clenching of your diaphragm. It’s not getting any easier to face the memory of what happened between the pair of you, despite your promise of forgiveness.

Tom is focusing on the screen of his laptop, on the plans the pair of you are finalizing for Max’s upcoming birthday. Even still you notice the flinched reaction that he tries to hide by keeping his face turned away. Neither is ever alone in confronting the memory of that day.  Sometimes you wish you could protect him from it – and then there are days where you delight in the fact that he suffers, just as you do. Those are not proud moments. You spent so long nursing the spite, anger, and hate as a way to combat the emotion you couldn’t smother. Some habits are hard to break. Some days you doubt you ever will.

A long sigh escapes Tom’s lips and he leans back in his chair, the wood creaking as he shifts his weight. Simultaneously he pushes the laptop along the surface of the table, scooting the piece of tech away from him. “I can hardly believe he’ll be four soon.”

Today Tom’s method of battling back is focusing on the beautiful little boy that resulted – the beautiful _mischievous_ little boy that you can no longer hear crashing around his room. The quiet makes you nervous. You swivel to glance in the appropriate direction and nod. “Mmmhmm. Speaking of… Do you want to see what he’s up to or should I?”

Impishly, Tom grins. It’s an expression you’ve seen cross Max’s face a million times. Like father, like son. Tom remains relaxed back in his chair, but tilts his head slightly as he calls out, “Maximilian! Mate – what are you up to in there?”

A thump – the unmistakable sound of your son jumping down from whatever perch he’d climbed up to – precedes the sound of him dashing towards the kitchen. A herd of zebras would make less noise. You prepare yourself for any manner of mischief. Even so, you give a start when Max rounds the corner, appearing in the kitchen doorway holding an object immediately identifiable and tied to a whirlwind of emotion: the canvas painting from his first birthday.

“Max?” Tom forms his son’s name as a question.

The matching piece of yours is hidden away in the linen closet. Where had Tom stashed his? Has it been in Max’s room all this time and you just haven’t noticed it? Surely not. It is hardly surprising that Max has discovered it. Your son excels at hide and seek, one of his many talents.

“I want to paint.”

Both you and Tom respond at the same time. Yours is a simple question – _Now?_ – which draws a pouting lip and furrowed brow from your son. Tom’s response is more involved, his question stern: “Is that how we ask for things in this house?”

Max dips his chin down, unhappy with the reactions of both his parents. In a blink he reroutes and again you’re struck by the similarities of expressions utilized by both father and son. Max has gone into pouting puppy mode. “For my _birthday!_ ” He hesitates for a second, shifting his look-how-cute-and-innocent-I-can-be-when-I-want-something look from you to Tom, then adds a belated, “Please?”

You lift your eyebrows at the quick-change in behavior, watching Tom’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. He’s fixated on his son and the canvas that is held out before him. The plans were set for a dinosaur party, third one in a row. A change from the norm might be nice – but then revisiting this particular theme is a challenge you hadn’t anticipated.

Slowly, Tom nods, shifting to reach towards Max. “You’re sure, now… No dinosaurs this year? Or are we painting dinosaurs?”

It’s a necessary question. The invitations have already been ordered, decorated around the edges with a scene reminiscent of Max’s bedroom. _Bedrooms,_ really, though Tom’s version made your attempt at the theme seem simplistic. Tom had gone above and beyond what you were able to afford. At the time you’d taken offence at the decadence as though it was meant as another slap to the face. 3D dinosaur effects protruding from the walls? Pterodactyl mobiles hanging from the ceiling? Max had babbled on and on, excitedly describing every detail of his room to you until you felt you’d experienced it firsthand. It was a small victory when a few days after the new room was complete Tom had sent a message asking where you’d gotten the lamp in Max’s bedroom at your house. All that extravagant décor – _you can **feel** the dinosaurs, Mummy!_ _Raaaaawr!_ – and still the little DIY lamp had stuck out in your son’s mind as a required thing in his room.

“No…” Max seems thoughtful, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that he could have both. Still, after a moment he shakes his head. Painting. He wants painting without dinosaurs. Rex would be crushed if were more than an inanimate plastic dinosaur, favorite or no. Max clearly understands the meaning behind Tom’s outstretched hand, moving forward to carefully hand over the canvas.

Tom should be the one to answer since this party will be held at his house. It’s easy enough to cover everything in a protective layer of plastic but it’s ultimately his call.

“Alright then, mate. If you’re certain—“ he waits for Max to nod again, and then continues, “—then your mum and I will let everyone know. No dinosaurs this year.”

Message relayed, Max wheels about and dashed back down the hall to his bedroom to resume whatever it was he had been doing before discovering the work of art bearing his handprints and the date of his first birthday.

Tom studies the handprints upon the paint splattered canvas. When he speaks his voice wobbles, “I had this on the shelf in my closet. Not sure how he even knew it was there. Or how he got it down.”

“He’s your son.” You reach over and run your fingertips down his forearm, hovering your hand over top of his wrist. In a split second decision you lower your hand to rest your palm against his skin and grip his arm. “Capable of all manner of mischief and magic.”

He sets the canvas aside, close to the area where he’s pushed the laptop. He shifts his arm so that your hand is clasped within his own. Though he’s put it down, his eyes are still focused on the artwork. Max couldn’t have known all that the painting meant or everything forever linked. His memory wouldn’t have captured all that happened that day – the tension, the shouting, the banishment… That’s the hope, at least.

Tom moves his head a fraction of an inch. It’s just enough movement to be able to meet your gaze. “We can pull this off. Can’t we? We – it’ll be better than last time.”

“Yes.” Your answer is immediate. There’s no way the pair of you could muck up a birthday worse than you had the Year One Disaster.

He shifts in his chair, drawing himself closer to you as he turns to face you fully. For a few seconds you’re left watching thoughts formulate within him as he decides what to say, and how to say it. Finally he twitches the corner of his mouth and presses his lips together, motion allowing speech to follow. “I need to apologize for my behavior that day.”

That leaves you a bit stunned. _His_ behavior? You’re the one that threw him out of the house just as the party was ending. You’re the one that said those hurtful things in front of the few friends and family that had yet to leave. You’re the one that banished him from ever setting foot in your house again, from ever _touching_ you again. You wriggle your fingers within his grasp, using your thumb to massage the back of his hand. “Tom, we both…”

“I brought the cake on purpose. And the extra gifts.”

“I knew it!” You couldn’t help yourself. The exclamation popped right out of your mouth. You don’t quite shake your hand loose from his but the impulse is there to disengage and pull away from him, to stand up and take a step beyond his reach.

Tom’s eyes widen, a thought occurring suddenly, something so clearly jarring that the shock visibly rolls through him. “But not the shirt! Not – not the shirt.”  

It is indeed a jarring thought. Tom isn’t, and while thinking logically you can acknowledge that he never was, capable of something as cruel as that. Captured in the moment as you were the day of the Year One Disaster, bowled over by the intensity of memory so soon after the betrayal itself, you’d thought him capable of that and so much worse.

This time you do pull your hand from his. Time will never allow you to be able to think of that blue shirt and not feel some sort of residual of the sucker-punch you felt the day you came home to find Tom in bed with another woman.

You give yourself a shake. “I know that, too.” Knowing that doesn’t undo any of the damage that had been done, but hey – the pair of you are making progress.

He clenches his fist and thumps the table, everything on the surface vibrating with the force he applies. “I was so preoccupied with the cake – trying to make you mad that I’d disregarded agreement, just to see if you still felt… I didn’t even notice which shirt I pulled from the fucking closet.” He groans, unclenching his fist to run his hand through his hair.

“We got very good at figuring out how to push one another off the deep end.”

-

_You can’t even storm back into the building the way you want. At least he’s not there to witness. It is – let’s call it distracting – to consider how he might act when faced with an extremely pregnant, extremely angry you. Distracting is good. Lately you’ve found every possible position painful. Standing, sitting. Nothing makes you comfortable in your own skin. You love this little munchkin but you’re ready for him to be **out**. _

_Izzy is on the phone when you walk in the door. It only takes you a second to figure out she’s talking to. **Tom**. She was his friend once too, there’s no denying that. She’s clearly sided with you, been here with you ever since that horrible day… Acted as the go between so you wouldn’t have to talk to him when you could hardly breathe for sobbing. And then as the mediating voice, the one that kept you from doing anything foolish. She’s the one that has kept you sane. _

_One glimpse of your face and she turns her head, speaking low into the speaker of the device. “She’s just walked in the door. No. **No**. She doesn’t want to talk with you right now.” _

_Clear from the way her eyebrows arch up immediately after, he’s pleading._

_You mouth out the words to her: **Don’t**. **You**. **Dare**._

_She’s considering handing off the phone. Again you can’t help but recognize that she was his friend once. Knew him long before she met you. It is perhaps out of that longstanding loyalty that she holds the phone away from her ear and taps the screen._

_Speakerphone. She’s put him on speakerphone._

_“Speak,” she tells him while offering you a shrug._

_Why do you put up with her? She’s your best friend, and the only way you made it through the first few months of your pregnancy with his child. She kept the pints of ice cream stocked in the freezer, wiped up the tears, and assured you that while he was an ass and a fool – some of the less colorful terms – he wasn’t worth the endless moping. You, and the little one, deserved better._

_And she was right. Of course she was right._

_Right or no – she’s standing here in your kitchen holding out the phone towards you. Traitor!_

_His voice still grates at you. Why? No. Better not to examine that too closely, particularly not while your body is coursing with so many hormones. A different question then: Why is he on the phone? You’ll be seeing him again soon enough. One of the last prenatal sessions before your due date that is quickly approaching._

_"How – how are you? Morning sickness? The um, the books say..."_

_He’s stalling. There’s a purpose to this call. You point to the countertop, silently commanding Izzy to put the phone down._

_Still Tom is stuttering through his thoughts. “Of course not all mothers experience pregnancy the same way but, um.”_

_You interrupt his babble. “What do you want?” Your words are short, forceful._

_He hems and clears his throat, his voice lowering a notch. Anger. You mentally check off a point in your favor. Four words to push him from worry and concern back to the familiar arena that the pair of you have occupied since he decided to fall into bed with someone else._

_“It’s about Friday.”_

_Your appointment. You press the palms of your hands to either side of your stomach. "What about Friday?" You shift how you’re standing, annoyance running through you with such ferocity that your muscles tense. Oh that was unpleasant. You grimace at Izzy’s look of curiosity and wave a hand at her when she takes a step towards you._

_“I’ve got an appearance and--”_

_Mutely you point to the countertop again, urging Izzy to put the phone down so she doesn’t have to be subjected to this. She’s had to endure far too many of these conversations that have turned to arguments._

_“I’ve tried to move it but…”_

_That’s as far as you’ll let him get with that sentence. You talk over him and his request that you, the one he cheated on, the one heavy with **his** child, make any concessions. “I’m not rescheduling. Go smile pretty for the cameras and I’ll have one fucking session that is peaceful.” _

_“Look, babe, I’m not asking for the world, here.”_

_He won’t give up the terms of endearment. Point for him. One well-placed word to shove you off firm ground, too – not that your footing had been all that firm to start with. “You’ve had the details for weeks. Weeks! If you’ve scheduled something that conflicts, that’s on **you**.” You grip the edge of the counter, closing your eyes as if that will stave off your anger. It doesn’t, of course, only provides opportunity for your brain to supply a mental image of Tom pacing back and forth as he argues with you. All the more reason to keep your eyes open. _

_“I’ve made everything else work. How many goddamned middle of the night flights to be able to be there!?”_

_For every appointment. Every single one since you allowed him that small victory. Damn him and his persistence. First you allowed the reestablishment of communication – even if you’d not been able to do much more than shout variations of **fuck you** before hanging up – then came allowing him information as to your state of being. Concern for the baby. Concern for you. Why can’t he just let you hate him properly? _

_You grit your teeth, another wave of ire bowing you a bit. It serves to bring that much more bite to your words. “Oh go to hell. Don’t even try for sympathy. Poor you sitting in first class, most likely sleeping while in route.”_

_“Fuck!” The explicative erupts from him, “You’re angry. I get that. I thought by now it might pass but. Tell me what to do. What can I do to make this right? Anything. I’ll do – I would destroy myself to fix you.”_

_Before he can amend his words you’re on him, shouting at the phone. “Me? Fix **me**?!”_

_“You know what I meant! This. Fix us!”_

_“Fuck you, Hiddleston.” Ah there it is. Your favorite phrase has one again been released. The tension that had been building within you is released along with those three words. Has it become your mantra? You channel your remaining anger at the phone, hoping that some of it, by proxy, can reach him. “You want to destroy yourself? Be my fucking guest.”_

_Izzy’s shout of alarm breaks through the argument, drowning out whatever he might offer as response. “Oh my God. You… Tell him to sod off! Look down! We’ve got to go!”_

_You blink, forcing yourself to disengage and take a step back. The carpeted floor is dark, darker than it had been when you walked into the room. What you had taken to be strong waves of emotion in reaction to Tom and his words – and then the sudden release…_

-

Izzy’s words echo in your ears. _Got to go. Go go go go!_ You had been so focused on needling Tom, on hating him, that you’d hardly noticed your water breaking or the fact that you’d gone into labor.

All that hate needs to be abandoned, for your sake, for Max, and for Tom. You had, after all, made Tom a promise in the days after getting out of the hospital. You agreed to work with him, or at least to give it a try.

Forgiveness is a tricky thing.

It’s easy enough to relay to all the guests that there is a slight change in plans regarding the upcoming party. Even with the vast supply of paints carted from your place to Tom’s, Tom does end up going out to buy more paint on the off chance that the army of four and five year olds manage to use up the stockpile.

Once again you have several canvases for Max to cover with color. Leaving it up to him as to the subject matter, you focus on keeping the paint contained to the section of the house coated with a protected layer of plastic.

The results are mixed. Some of the parents end up with handprints to again mark the progression of age, some take home unicorns, or dragons fighting above a castle. Your little artist paints two landscapes, a task that consumes his focus. Tom attempts at one point to reroute his son’s attention, only to have Max nearly leap from his chair to protect the images on the canvas from being seen. Only Izzy is allowed close to offer wipes, or more paint, or gently remind him that his friends came to play and paint and celebrate with him.

After catching a glimpse of the canvases and then being ordered away by Max, Tom becomes slightly subdued. During your hospitalization and brief recovery period the pair of them had furthered their bond so to be sent away, an act so similar to the treatment he’s suffered from you over these past five years… It certainly won’t do for his son’s fourth birthday. Is there a way you can console Tom, or offer up some sort of distraction to ease his mind again?

You meander over to where Tom has settled, supervising the paint covered children from afar while he broods over this change in his son’s demeanor. When he doesn’t immediately strike up conversation, doesn’t even seem to notice your appearance at his side, you’re forced to revise your earlier assumption. He isn’t supervising the scene, but seems lost in thought as he focuses on the table where Max is painting.

A hip check is in order. The collision causes Tom to give a start, flinging his arms out as he stumbles. Of course he recovers quickly, attempting a bright smile when he realizes it is you that has knocked him off balance. “Hey. Looks as though the dinosaurs are hardly missed.”

“Yes.” Tom knits his eyebrows together for a moment as he glances away from you to settle his focus on his son again.

Is he so concerned over being chased away? You reach out to run your hand down his shoulder, resting it over his bicep before giving his arm a squeeze. “It’s not a new phase, Tom. I bet tomorrow morning he’ll run into your room and jump into bed with you, demanding snuggles.”

The thought seems to brighten him, or at least lessen the shadow that had fallen over his features. Or maybe it’s that you’re taking the time to reassure him rather than make it worse. To Tom’s half-hooded expression you offer up a soft smile. It’s only then that he seems able to reengage, his eyes sparkling once more.


	12. Bedtime Story

**T** hey are The Sun and The Moon. They light up his life. But why must they always be separate? They make each other so angry, and sometimes so sad. He’s heard enough to know that Daddy messed up. Daddy made a mistake.

 **Mistake**. Meaning an action or judgement that is wrong.

But when Max does something wrong they still love him. If it is bad enough he apologizes and gets punished for it, but then he is forgiven and life goes on. What Daddy did, Mommy won’t forgive him for. He’s heard about that, too.

 **Cheat**. To act dishonestly or unfairly in order to gain an advantage.

Daddy’s cheating had hurt Mommy so badly that her punishment had been a lasting one. His time outs are horrible, boring, sometimes painful things – sometimes they even take his _toys_ – but Daddy’s has been for as long as Max can remember.

They try to hide it from him, how sad they get after one of the big fights. Mommy waits until after he’s supposed to be asleep. On bad nights he sneaks into her bedroom and crawls into bed with her, cuddling to make sure she’s ok. He doesn’t like hearing her cry.

Daddy is harder to catch, and harder still to comfort. But Max has figured out the reasons behind certain actions. Repetition of certain foods. Certain stories.

They love each other. Max can see it when they’re not fighting. And even when they are. What he can’t understand is why they can’t move past it. Why isn’t _I’m sorry_ good enough?

 **Fair**. That one he knows. And he knows it is what life isn’t.

But Maximilian James Hiddleston has a plan.

–

Izzy’s reward for agreeing to help wrangle the children was that she got to take home half the cake. Taking home half the cake had been necessary, because Tom had once again gone overboard and… This time you’re almost certain it wasn’t for wanting to show off or rub your nose in the fact that he could go to the best bakery in town and order a sheet cake larger than Max was tall.

No, this time, like you, Tom had been determined to make sure everything had gone off without a hitch.

And then Max had done those paintings. Tom had managed a glance at his son’s artwork, closely guarded as they were. Max had spotted him quickly, and had nearly flung himself over the canvases to keep the artwork hidden – and Tom had spent the rest of the party in a sullen mood. Sceneries – a pair of them – something you were able to discover while Max was distracted with ice cream: a bright blue sky with clouds and a radiant sun, and a blue and purple nighttime scene dotted with stars and an ivory, luminescent moon.

Why had they sent Tom retreating within himself? It wasn’t that he’d slipped into a dangerous memory. You couldn’t feel the tug that usually pulled you down memory lane with him. Offering him a lifeline, trying to draw his thoughts elsewhere, had hardly put a dent in his mood. Even the wine that gets uncorked and offered to the few adults chaperoning – those with rides coming or a short distance to walk – barely helps.

The wine does bring out a more flirtatious manner in you and _that_ is something that doesn’t go unnoticed, particularly by Izzy. She’s made her displeasure regarding this reconciliation known more than once. It’s your life to live as you see fit, your heart to be broken if things don’t work out for one reason or another. Your best friend’s glares are the other reason to send her home with half the cake. Distraction by means of sugar. She hints you should ride with her, that she’ll drop you at the house and the pair of you can retrieve your car in the morning. You wave her off, reminding her that you have an obligation to help clean up. Co-host responsibilities and all that.

Was the reason for Tom’s mood rooted in the fact that he was turned away by Max? Worried that this is the start of a new phase of shunning him? With the guests gone and your guard loosened, you now actually have opportunity to ask if he’s alright – possibly to be rewarded by hearing the ring of truth in his answer. Though he had weaved easily through the straggling guests in the main room, you’ve had enough practice to know when something is eating at him. _Usually_ that something is directly related to something you’ve done or said – so to have Max be the cause…

“Hey. You know he was just caught up in wanting to get the paintings right before giving them to us, right?” In terms of comfort it isn’t much, but since he won’t do more than smile and wave off your concern it’s the best you can offer.

Tom nods, glancing again towards the corner where Max had carefully laid the two landscapes to rest while they dried. “Yes.”

Another one word answer from the king of words. Trying to figure out your next attempt at sourcing out the reason for Tom’s subdued manner, you finish rolling the plastic from the living room floor into a carefully arranged ball. It would be easier to just fling the tarp at him and tell him to snap out of it. You sigh as you make your way towards the waiting trash bag, nearly walking into Tom who has drawn up short. He wasn’t as careful with his tarp. Another drip of green slides into view as you watch, plopping down to join the other splotch of color that has escaped to mar Tom’s previously clean kitchen floor.

Aside from a handprint or two in the bathroom, the house has remained unblemished. In both instances, the surfaces with splashes of paint are easily washed. Thank heavens for sealed tile.

“Well, shit. Hand me a wipe?” Tom stares down at the newly green area, still seemingly lost in his thoughts. He distractedly accepts the wet wipe before kneeling down to attend to the glob, moving with a speed only obtained by parents of youngsters with a keen radar for, and ability to, spread messes.

You deposit your own sheet of plastic in the trash and then move to snag your wineglass from the countertop. The last of the wine it had contained predictably holds no answers. Maybe the bottle at home does… or at least will help you figure out why Tom is suddenly closing himself off again. The party had gone so well! It’s nothing you’ve done this time, or at least, that you were aware of doing… You’re left staring at Tom, the irony of needing to reach out after spending so many years wanting to ensure an impenetrable barrier existed between the pair of you, not going unnoticed.

Max reappears, hands suspiciously dry for someone who had been sent to wash paint from behind his ears. The dots of yellow and orange still adorn his upper arms, as well. He surveys his father wiping up paint from the floor and moves to ‘help’. “Daddy – why’s the floor green?”

Ah the season of **why**. Despite the fact that you’re biting the inside of your lips a giggle bubbles up and escapes you. Tom tilts his head in your direction, arching an eyebrow at you before responding to Max, “Er. Had a mishap, little man. How about you help your mum with those brushes, though. I’ve got this.”

Tom’s little mini-me stays by his side, supervising his every movement. Wipe. Fold. Turn the cloth. Wipe. Max’s eyes follow his father’s hand like a cat surveying its prey. “Just like ve-ge-tables.” He carefully enunciates the word, his face scrunched up at the thought of the green things you like to try to sneak onto his plate.

“Mmhmm.” Tom’s doing his best to sound solemn as he answers.

Remembering Tom’s mention of the tasks yet to be completed, you cross the kitchen and turn on the tap, rinsing the suds from last few paintbrushes and emptying the container they had been soaking in. Some of the brushes hadn’t survived the party and had gone into the bin near Tom, the rest of them were lined up on the towel adorning the countertop to your left. Tom had laid each brush out with precision, tips all pointed in the same direction.

Over the sound of running water you hear Max follow up with another question, “Daddy, why are ve-ge-tables green?”

You turn off the water and glance over your shoulder in anticipation of Tom’s reply to find him looking up at you. You shrug one shoulder at him as though to say: _Go for it, Hiddleston._ His look in reply is clear enough: _Oh, thanks a lot._ He puffs out a breath, shifting how he is kneeling, “Erm. Chlorophyll, I think.”

Another short laugh escapes as you turn and lean back against the sink. “Really, Tom. He’s just turned four. He’s too young to understand that.”

Even as you protest you catch Max nodding, accepting his father’s answer. Another question doesn’t follow. It’s never that easy with you. The **whys** go on and on. This interaction seems to draw Tom back out of his melancholy, at least. _See_ – you want to nod at the pair of them – _see how your son adores you? There’s nothing to worry about!_

Tom stretches as he stands and as he brings his hands back down he pauses to scratch along the edge of his jaw. Green transfers from his knuckles to the side of his face but Max beats you to pointing it out. “Daddy–” he giggles, “—now _you’re_ green!”

Paused only for a moment, Tom recovers quickly. “Hmm, well, seeing as bath time will be extended tonight anyway – maybe you should be too!” Tom bends to try to snare Max, who lets out a squeal and wiggles away from his father’s grasp. At this rate it will be ages before Max calms down enough to sleep, or maybe Tom’s intent is to burn off the sugar high from the cake and ice cream so that Max will crash soon after bath time. At least it won’t be you that has to give chase and calm him down. With the house all but restored to pre-party condition, it’s time for you to leave.

Seeking a safe haven Max darts across the room to you, wrapping his arms around your hips as he worms his way between you and the kitchen cabinets, hugging himself tight against you as he does so. “Mommy! I don’t want to be a ve-ge-table!”

This is what life might have been like had things not gone sideways. The three of you would have had four years of laughter and … The warmth that had spread from contentment and wine mixes with the frustration over Tom’s distance for half the party and the pang of loss over what could-have-been.

You turn halfway and trail your fingers through Max’s curls, doing your best to maintain your balance, since he has your knees virtually locked together. Despite your efforts, your tone betrays where your thoughts had meandered. “Don’t worry baby, Daddy won’t turn you into a veggie.”

Tom hesitates, primed to scoop up Max and continue the horseplay. He’s noted the change in your voice. You tip your head towards the sink, yet again communicating with him without speaking. _Wash up_. Prying yourself from Max’s grasp so you can duck down and slip your hands under his armpits, you scoop him up to rest his weight on your hip. Max snuggles close, dropping his head down to sit on your shoulder.

It’s time for goodbyes, time to end this moment before something can happen to ruin the warmth it provides. “We’re going to let Daddy to the sink so he can wash off.” You sidestep to make room and allow Tom forward, “And then you need to show us your paintings so I can…”  

Max is practically vibrating as he lets out a short protestation. He knows what’s coming – that you’re trying to start the process of leaving. “Nooooo. Mommy I want you to stay!”

Speckles of paint dot his face, doubling the number of freckles that dot his skin. Had he been splatter painting while you weren’t looking? The frown that has taken over his face breaks your heart. No four year old should know how to frown with such severity. You respond quietly, giving him a light squeeze, “No, baby.”

Tom has fallen still at the sink, his hand resting on the handle of the faucet. He glances sideways, his features unreadable. “You could… You should, actually.” He pauses, giving the empty bottle of wine on the counter a short nod. “You’ve been drinking.”

Not the ganging up on you. Happening with increasing frequency since your hospitalization, it’s now your turn to frown. Stay? It’s not wise. Still holding Max in place with one arm, you lift the other to lightly rub across his back. You scowl at Tom, “A glass.”

“Two.” He corrects, not missing a beat as he turns on the tap and washes the green from his knuckles.

Max’s head bobbles back and forth between the pair of you as you banter. You press your lips together for a second, “And long enough ago, ok _mostly_ long enough ago, that it wouldn’t matter. Cake and ice cream and nibbles of food, too. I’m fine to drive.”

Since frowning didn’t seem to do the trick Max switches tactics, morphing his face into a pleading look that could sway even the coldest of hearts. You’re not partial, far from it, but _oh that face_. The girls in his class won’t know what hit them.

Seeing how close you are to caving Tom adopts the same look as his son, shrugging as he dries his hands. “Just – how about an hour. Two tops? Just to let it work further from your system.”

An hour or two – that could work. Max will probably crash from his sugar high before the time limit is up and then you’ll be able to slip out – and in a state that better suits his father. You’re about to agree when Max throws his body backward in protest of Tom’s suggestion. He’d thought he had an ally. Thankfully Tom is there to help keep Max from crashing to the floor as he bucks his body free of your hold. “Nooo! Staying means staaaaaying!”

Clearly turning four doesn’t mean the end of his tantrums.

Passing off your protesting son, you leave your men to bath time. Max’s petulance quickly fades as Tom distracts him with a recounting of the day – did he enjoy seeing everyone? – and the painting? – and which of the gifts was he going to play with first? Listening to the splashes and laughter that echo from within Max’s bathroom, again you are struck by the notion that this might have been what life would have been like had things not gone off the rails. As always, it leaves you breathless. With the living room already picked up, there’s not much other than rearranging cushions and pillows to pull your attention away from the ache settling into your chest.

You wander back into the kitchen to rinse the set of wineglasses again. It will at least give you something to do with your hands. For the running water, you don’t hear the footsteps of Tom’s approach. You jump at his soft cough that announces his entrance into the space. “He’s nearly ready for bed. But he wants you to help tuck him in…”

An intrusion into their routine? You turn off the faucet and wipe your hands on the now damp drying-rag that usually hangs from the front of the oven door. A fresh wave of concern washes through you. If Tom had been worried earlier that Max was pulling away from him, how would this affect things? You bite the inside corner of your mouth, slowly pulling your inner lip free so you can reply, “Do you mind?”

“You’re here and he’s asking, why would I mind?”

Tom leads the way down the hall towards the room you’ve only allowed yourself quick glimpses of. You know it by heart for the detailed descriptions you’ve received from Max – _RAWR means I love you in dinosaur, Mommy_ – and even in low lighting you can see Tom truly spared no expense. You wonder, briefly, what will happen when Max decides he’s outgrown his dinosaur obsession, but that thought is cast aside when your freshly washed four year old sits upright in his bed and grins at you, “Mommy! Mommy – tuck me in and Daddy can tell us a story!”

At your back you hear Tom release a short chuff, “It’s a little late, little man.”

You suppress a light laugh, unable to keep from smiling as Max lays down, pulling his dinosaur covered sheets up to his armpits. He doesn’t need help tucking himself in any more than he needs another dinosaur in his expansive collection. Kneeling beside the bed, you make a show of tucking his blankets around his torso and legs as he continues, insistent in his tone, “A short one? Please??”

“Ok. A quick one.” You feel the shift of the mattress as Tom sits at the far corner of Max’s bed, aiding your attentions to Max’s bedsheets by tucking the sheets around his son’s feet with his left hand.

“The sun and the moon.”

Tom falls still at Max’s request, his hand hovering a few inches above the bed. You pull your eyebrows together in a light frown, curious why any particular story request would net such a reaction. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Tom is frowning when he replies. “Max…”

“Daddy.”

“You know that one so well. How about…”

While Tom hems, searching for another choice, any other choice, Max refuses to be swayed. “Please? Please?!”

“Ok. Alright.” Tom pats his squirming son. “Settle. Settle in. The story of The Sun and The Moon.” Tom pauses as you try to fix the sheets again from where Max had nearly kicked them off. You feel the prickle his gaze lighting upon you and then pull away again. “Short version.”

“Daddy!” Max nearly sits upright, his displeasure clear.

This time Tom sets his hand firmly down on the bedsheets covering Max’s shins, pinning his son’s legs in place. “Settle. Or no story at all.”

Max nods, his nearly dried curls starting to spring into the untamed halo that typically frames his face when his hair is left to do as it will. In contrast to your songs, Tom has always used words to try to lull his son to sleep. Your readings always paled in comparison to the characters that seemed to spring from the pages as Tom recited them. Max has his favorites, and for a while there The Book had been the only thing that he would hear before bedtime, meaning it made many a trip from house to house. Max, who is keenly watching his father, has never requested it of you. Curious, you settle to listen as well.

Tom gently clears his throat and doesn’t get more than half a sentence out before he is interrupted by Max. “No! That’s not the way it starts! Tell it _right_ , Daddy!”

It had sounded like a decent start to you – and again you find yourself wondering just how many times this story has been shared between the pair of them. Tom had gotten – what – half a dozen words before Max had interrupted?

It very well could have been the end of story time but Tom just shakes his head, licking his lips as a tight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, little man. You win. The proper story of The Sun and The Moon.”

> ~
> 
> _There is a story of The Sun and The Moon, and how they dance through the skies. Sometimes together, sometimes apart. They are connected, you see, fated to bring light to the world._
> 
> _There are some – incredibly rare, incredibly special – days when they share the same sky. Days when The Moon doesn’t retreat as quickly and The Sun is able to catch up, and to him those days are precious. His light falls upon her, and he smiles and smiles to know she is so close._
> 
> _In the daylight, while still beautiful, The Moon does not glow. She might reflect his light but she turns away, saving her love for the stars._
> 
> _But at night, when The Sun has gone, when the light and heat from The Sun fades and The Moon is given space – when she dances among the stars – she is luminous, radiant. There, in The Sun’s absence, The Moon can shine and shine, casting her soft light and love on all who would gaze upon her._
> 
> _There is nothing he would ask of her in return. Nothing he could ask of her other than allowing him to watch her play with the stars and let him bask in her glow._
> 
> _And sometimes, when The Sun is lucky – he thinks he spies The Moon staring back at him as night turns to day. Just a glimpse, just a glimmer of the love he has for her, reflected back. So The Sun watches. He still gives chase. Because he loves her, because he must. Because he doesn’t know any other way to continue to shine and light up the day._
> 
> _So this is the story of The Sun and The Moon, and how he loves her so much that he dies every night to let her breathe._
> 
> ~

You hug your arms around your torso as you leave Max’s room. Goodnight kisses given in haste, you retreat out of Max’s room quickly, glad to have your back to your son so he can’t witness the tumult of emotion stirred up within you.

With the click of the bedroom door you know Tom is close on your heels, his voice low, but urgent, as he speaks, “Please. Hang on a minute. Let me explain.”

Max had known the minute Tom tried to change the story around and had demanded that his father course correct. How often had this story been told? You walk quickly down the hall, nearly making it to the main room, but Tom snares you, halting your progress by wrapping one of those large hands around the meat of your arm and serving as a weight against your forward motion.

You hug your torso tighter as Tom steps around you, moving into your field of view. Max’s artwork now makes sense – more than two simple landscapes. And Tom’s reaction when he had won a glimpse? You look up at the man currently wearing a pained, almost panicked, expression, “How often have you told him that story?”

“Often enough, I suppose. It’s one of his favorites. Not that I’ve explained the meaning of…”

“One of his favorites.” You echo his words, holding his gaze for a moment. It’s after you add on the secondary thought that you have to look away, look anywhere else other than into those crystalline eyes. “He clearly knows who it is about.”

Tom shifts his hand, not quite tightening his grip on your arm but not quite letting go either. “It started as – as a way to talk about you without him realizing… A made up story that brought comfort to us both. I – I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think he would make the connection.”

Unlocking your grip from your midsection, you shift and press your hands against Tom’s abdomen, feeling his muscles clench in anticipation of being pushed away. Still not lifting your eyes to meet his, you let your hands drift around his body and meet at his spine, pausing only for a moment before you grasp at the fabric of his shirt. The soft material clenched tightly in your hands, you lean into his body. “Yes, you did. Or at least hoped he would, in time.”

Hesitantly, you feel Tom relax, and his arms wrap around you. “Alright. Maybe I did.” He stands there holding you, each of you silently facing the onslaught of emotion stirred up by the airing of his story. His heartbeat is hardly steady, but starting to normalize. “What now?”

“Now? Now I want to hear what you think happens to The Moon in the morning if The Sun dies every night.” Nestled against him, you feel the inhale before he releases his breath, and the wet pop his mouth makes when he opens his mouth and licks his lips, preparing his reply. But no, you’re not ready yet for his answer. “But we’ll need another bottle of wine.”

Softly, Tom hesitates agreement, “Alright.”

You release him, putting a bit of space between the pair of you again. Yes. Another bottle of wine will be required. Smiling, you shake your head, momentarily glancing beyond the man you’re forever linked to, to light your focus on the closed door of Max’s bedroom. “And despite the way he asked, our son gets what he wanted.” Catching Tom’s blank look, you lift one shoulder into a shrug. “Another bottle means I’m staying the night.”

–

_It is after bedtime, but Max is awake. When they got home today Daddy helped him turn his desk and chair into a fort – and rather than sleep he is playing in the floor, a flashlight illuminating the underside of his desk. He can hear Daddy is awake as well, walking back and forth, back and forth, in the other room. His pillow is in place, though, to make it look like he is sleeping if Daddy peeks in to check on him._

_Seated with his legs crossed, Max holds Rex close to his chest to keep Rex and Shere Khan from fighting while he is distracted, and stretches himself until the top of his head almost brushes the underside of his desk as he listens to Daddy move around. Daddy isn’t talking to himself, not saying things over and over like he does sometimes. Three year old Max knows better than to interrupt when Daddy is Pretending._

_This is different. When Daddy is Pretending there is a rhythm to his steps. But there is no steady beat tonight. Just shuffling, snuffling, and the occasional bump. Max frowns down at his stuffed Shere Khan, who waits in the shadows, ready to pounce. He’s supposed to be asleep. He could stay here in his fort, playing until he cares to crawl back into bed again. He could – but no. Something is wrong with Daddy. He needs to go investigate._

_Shere Khan will help. Daddy likes Shere Khan best of all. Max scoops up the stuffed tiger, pausing to give a long look at the plastic dinosaur still clutched in his left hand. Daddy likes Rex, too, but Rex isn’t as good at sneaking and scaring the Things lurking in the dark and that’s what Shere Khan does best._

_Pausing to put his flashlight back and tuck Rex in – because that’s the best way to defend the bedroom, trick others into thinking you’re sleeping – Max begins the tip-toed journey through the house. Following the source of light, Max hears another great sigh, almost a spoken non-sense noise from Daddy. Maybe he is Pretending but it is like when they play with his dinosaurs? Max lifts his foot to take another exaggerated, sneaking step, but holds his bare foot in the air, considering how angry Daddy might get at both finding his should-be-in-bed son awake, **and** being interrupted._

_He’ll peek around the corner – he and Shere Khan – and watch, first. Just for a minute. Just to be sure._

_Max tips his head to peer into the big room, holding his body tight against the wall so he is sure he can’t be seen if Daddy happens to glance towards the hallway. First exposing his left eye to the lamplight brightened room, then the bridge of his nose, then his right eye – oh and making sure Shere Khan can watch too – he blinks and hunkers down, following Daddy’s movements with his eyes._

_Daddy isn’t changed for bed. Barefoot just like Max, yes, but unlike Max he is still wearing his daytime clothes. Daddy always showers and changes after putting Max to bed. That’s one of his favorite things when he calls for a second reading of The Book: the way Daddy smells when he snuggles close – Daddy sometimes lets him use the big-boy soap, too _–_ and the softness of his bedtime shirt._

_And yes, Shere Khan is right, Daddy is frowning like he does sometimes when he is Pretending and can’t get the words right. But he’s not Pretending. He’s rubbing at his face and shaking his head, and not watching where he’s walking. That’s the bumping noise._

_Max presses his lips together, sucking at the insides of his mouth as he sneaks out of view again. Should he appear in the entryway to the room looking wide awake or half asleep? If Daddy thinks he woke him – something is upsetting Daddy and Max doesn’t want to make it worse. It is Max and Shere Khan to the rescue._

_Wide awake it is. “Daddy!” He chirps out the word as he launches himself around the corner, bounding along with Shere Khan until the pair of them can pounce onto the sofa cushions._

_“Max!” Daddy returns the excited greeting, but his with a look of surprise. He stops walking, a little skip-step of surprise escaping him before he frowns again and puts his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to be in bed, little man.”_

_Max scowls and squeezes his stuffed tiger, wiggling backward until his back is pressed against the back of the sofa. This is not how this is supposed to go. Maybe he should have gone with stumbling and looking like he was half asleep. Even tired and upset _–_  yes his eyes are red just like Mommy’s when she’s sad _–_ Daddy is still unhappy with him for being up so late. “But Daddy,” he tips his head back, looking at his father beyond the tip of his nose, “I’m not sleepy.”_

_“Certain of that, are you?”_

_Had he made Daddy laugh? He isn’t frowning as much, just for a blink, but then his face settles again. Tired. Sad. And something else, too. It makes Max frown, as well. He nods his head forward again. “Yes.”_

_This gets another sigh from his father, and the deep frown creases flatten just a bit. “Maximilian James, I’d rather face-off with your partner in crime, there, than…”_

_Daddy smells like the theater – wood and tiny spaces and soap and plastic – and a little like jasmine, which makes Max tilt his head curiously as Daddy gets closer, preparing to scoop him up off the cushions. Jasmine is Mommy’s favorite flower. “Why do you smell like Mommy?”_

_Daddy stops talking, swallows, and then clears his throat, shaking his head. “I… Nevermind. C’mon, little man. Let’s go settle and read The Book again.” He holds out his arms, ready to hoist Max up and carry him back down the hallway again._

_Holding tight to Shere Khan, he grasps the heavy material of his father’s sweater in the other hand to better steady himself in Daddy’s arms. “No.”_

_“No?”_

_Ooop. There’s **The Look**. He’s on his way to a smarting bottom for all his troubles. Careful. Careful. Max dips his chin down. Probably best to put on his best I’m-too-cute-to-be-mad-at-right?-face. They’re nearly back to his room and he is no closer to knowing why Daddy is up and upset so late at night. “A story instead, Daddy. Please?”_

_“A story?” Daddy puckers his lips, and the frown lines change._

_“Yes. A story!” Max nods, squirming a bit as Daddy bumps the bedroom door further ajar with his hip._

_“The Jungle Book?”_

_Daddy tells the best stories – doing all the voices **just so** – and funny expressions and sometimes acting things out too. And while funny stories are the best, and the whole point – maybe half the point – of carrying Shere Khan with him was to ask for a story the both of them loved… It isn’t a telling of The Jungle Book that Max is looking for. It doesn’t seem right, even if it brings the lightest smile to Daddy’s face. As soon as his feet touch the edge of his bed he wiggles his way free of Daddy’s arms and scrambles to the edge of his dinosaur sheets, pulling the faux-Max-pillow back to its correct place.  “Make up a story, Daddy.”_

_That request deepens the frown lines again, and Max watches as Daddy’s shoulders shift and slump. He lifts his hand and wipes his palm over his face as though to pull the frown lines from his skin, and it works. Even by the light of Max’s bedside lamp, the triceratops twin to the t-rex at Mommy’s, Max can see that the deep lines that had crossed his father’s face are gone. While still tired, he doesn’t look as sad. “It’s been a long day, mate.”_

_“Please?” He gives the puppy dog look one more go, just for good measure._

_He is rewarded with a light huff, and half a smile. Daddy leans to help tuck in his sheets and he can see that Daddy is lost in thought. Thinking of a story, he hopes? Then Daddy leans back again and gives him a nod. “Alright, little man. I’ll tell you a story about – about The Sun and The Moon, and how he loves her so much he dies every night to let her breathe.”_

–

Tom shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips only to realize that he can see the bottom. He frowns, leaning forward to snag the half empty bottle from the coffee table beside you. “Which is the long way of explaining, I suppose…”

“Except you never really answered the question, Tom.”

“Didn’t I?” He offers to top off your three quarters empty glass, then attends to his own. After another lengthy sip, he replies, a frown gracing his features. “Hmm, I guess not… It – it was a bad night. One of many. But he asked for a story, and it was a way to work through the pain without outright…” Tom sighs, leaning back again and shifting his weight on the cushions to better be able to face you. “It was different when he was younger. When I could talk endlessly to him, say anything I wanted and he wouldn’t understand a word. It was all nonsense to his ears.”

He’s watching you, waiting for your reaction – to see if you’re going to laugh, or frown. You switch your glass from your right hand to your left and let your fingers drift towards your stomach. “I used to talk to him like that, too. Both after he was born, and before.”

Max as a baby had been an outlet, someone other than Izzy that you could pour your heart out to. Most importantly, you could say anything and you wouldn’t have to worry about being judged. Max would just blink up at you, listening, sometimes smiling at the attention he was receiving – or sleeping – or just cooing and squirming in your arms. Strange to find out that Tom had been doing the same thing.

Tom is swirling the light topaz colored liquid around, eyes unfocused on his hands. “That night – the night of the first telling _–_ it would’ve been the 7 thanniversary of when we met. I’d gone to the shop right after work and bought a bouquet of flowers to give you. Jasmine. Threw them away before I made it two blocks down the street. Can you imagine?” He shakes his head, scrunching up his face and blinking himself back to the present.

How would you have reacted if he had showed up to your door to pick up his son, the pair of you bitterly fighting any time you interacted, and dared to have a bouquet of your favorite flowers with him? If Tom had dared to try to commemorate the anniversary of your meeting? The flowers would’ve gotten chucked at his head, most definitely.

Tom meets your eyes for a moment and nods, correctly guessing your thoughts. “Yes. I could, too. In great detail. So I tossed them, and picked Max up, without a word, and we carried on with our day as though it were the same as any other. And it _was_ the same as any other – at least until nighttime. Then the house was quiet but my thoughts – my thoughts were too loud.”

“And Max asked for a story.”

“It was a way to talk through the pain. Give voice to it. Try to keep it from suffocating me.”

“And did it? Help?” Tom shrugs, and you twitch the corners of your mouth into a brief smile. “Well, your method sounds more therapeutic than mine.”

Creases form between Tom’s eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling up in concern. “And what was your method of choice?”

“A bubble bath,” you duck your head to the side, allowing your smile a bit more hold as you lift your glass, “And a bottle of wine.”


	13. Blue

> Once someone’s hurt you, its harder to relax around them,   
> harder to think of them as safe to love.  
> But it doesn’t stop you from wanting them.
> 
>                                 – Holly Black – White Cat

**M** ovie night was almost without incident. Izzy was watching Max – “Moster and I are making monster cupcakes.” – he decided he didn’t want to ask particulars on that point, just settle for the knowledge that the Little Man was being doted upon by his godmother and having a sugar-fueled blast.

The movie was something he’d been meaning to watch but hadn’t found the time. Max’s mother, likewise, had been busy with work, not to mention that one can’t very well watch a 12 rated movie with a five year old in the house. Particularly not with _their_ five year old, who would adopt all the words he shouldn’t be saying into his vocabulary and chirp them out every chance he got.

Truthfully, though, Tom has only paid half a mind to the movie. He’s gotten accustomed her close proximity again, or maybe accustomed isn’t the proper term for it. He’s figured out how to distract himself from the urge he always feels in her presence – or at least satisfy himself with whatever contact she’s willing to offer and then deal with his desires once she’s safely away. His shower and bedroom is seeing lots of action, but only with an occupancy of one.

They started out seated side by side on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn wedged between them and resting atop a small pillow. The popcorn was gone halfway through the movie, the bowl relegated to the coffee table a short while after. Two thirds of the way through the movie she’d stretched out, tucking her legs beneath a throw blanket and resting her head on the pillow that had worked its way partially into his lap. After that he could only focus on not fidgeting, for the benefit of her comfort, and figuring out how to _not_ think about how he’d like nothing better than to say fuck the movie.

He’d lasted all of ten minutes before the situation became problematic. At least the pillow was in place. He could – he could excuse himself for the need to use the toilet, or to offer to refill her drink – do his best to quietly relieve matters before potentially ruining the night. Not that they’re not both adults and once upon a time had been intimately familiar with every inch of the other’s anatomy, but they’ve not yet dared for anything more than limited contact – short hugs and the occasional lingering touch. Remaining chaste while they’re each testing the waters of this attempt at reconnection seems to be mutually agreed upon.

She’s probably dealing with it much in the same way as he is… a thought which doesn’t help his current predicament in the slightest. Makes it worse, actually. That’s all the blood-flow heading south, preventing him from keeping a straight head. Tom clicks his tongue in annoyance, shifting again in preparation for his charade of wine refills.

“Sorry, Tom. Am I making your leg fall asleep?”

The weight on his leg lifts as she moves, propping herself up on one arm to be able to look at him and offering him the chance to get away clean. He quickly adjusts the pillow and how he’s seated to continue to block her view of his lap. “Erm. No. I might – refill? Popcorn? Wine?”

She sits up further, smiling, “I’m alright. The movie’s almost over, anyway. Do you want me to pause it?”

Her negative response doesn’t keep him from attempting to get up. He’ll just duck down the hall and take care of things and… “No, I’ll just be a moment.”

It’s when he pauses reaching for the empty wine glasses and popcorn bowl that everything begins to unravel. The pillow falls away and – well it’s not as though his situation is unnoticeable. Damn these loose slacks. He should have opted for one of his pairs of jeans.

“Tom? Oh.”

_Oh_. He reaches for the pillow as prepares himself for hearing all manner of scolding, or for her sudden departure. He should have excused himself sooner. He was too greedy, wanting to soak up as much of her warmth as he could. To his surprise she reaches for the pillow as well, to pull it from his grasp. He’s floundering for words as she reaches for his lap again. “Ha-hang on. What are you doing?”

She lets out a light laugh, now more than halfway turned so she’s facing him. “I’m trying to help.”

Here. In his house. He can’t imagine. No. He has imagined and that’s half the problem. He’s losing the battle both with his willpower and with his attempts at keep her hands a safe distance from his groin. His grip on her right hand fails and her fingers hit their mark. Every muscle in his body jumps and he lets out a groan. “Help? That’s – not helping. That’s making it _worse_.”

“It _is_ helping,” she nods, again trying to bat his hands away. “If you’ll let me do what I’m trying to do.” She thinks she’s won already, and is slipping off the sofa to kneel between his knees.

He tips his body forward, closing his knees as much as he’s able. “And if you’re only doing it for the wine?”

She blinks up at him, a second’s delay passes before her eyebrows draw down into the beginnings of a frown. Oddly enough, he’s almost missed that expression. “For the wine? You think I’m drunk?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Babe. I just… think it’s been awhile, for the both of us…” He leaves the remainder of the sentence unspoken as the movie continues to play – **and I'm terrified of fucking this up** **.**

She sits back on her heels, frown still in place as she shakes her head, turning her attention to picking up a fallen piece of popcorn. Tom grunts, feeling deflated even though it was a rare instance where he’d won an argument. Does she understand his point? Did she give in so easily because she, too, had doubts and was hoping he would stop her? She’s up and clearing away the empty bowl that had contained the popcorn, not remaining in place to watch him get up and head to the master bathroom. By the time he reappears he’s missed the end of the movie and she’s cleared away the rest of the movie-watching paraphernalia.

It doesn’t matter how it ended. He’ll read a synopsis later, maybe.

The awkwardness doesn’t dissipate by the time Izzy reappears with Max – and a half dozen cupcakes – in tow. The distance has fallen back into place between the pair of them and Tom doesn’t know where to begin to attempt to bridge it again. Maybe the problem had been that despite his daydreams and fantasies to the contrary, he wasn’t ready. At least not here, not yet. Still, the door has been opened. There’s hope yet that they’ll make it back to where they once were.

A month later, several uneventful date nights come and gone, he’s nearly convinced himself that her actions **were**  only due to their inebriated nature. What would they do if she couldn’t stand to touch him in that way without the aid of some form of intoxicant?

It’s a thought that leaves him troubled, distracted throughout dinner and unable to really enjoy desert, Max’s new favorite thing: cupcakes mounded with icing.  

Tonight she moves with ease through her kitchen, plating the excess food to save for later. She slides one of the containers to her left, waiting for some of the heat to escape before sealing the lid. “More?” She casts a comment over her shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Maybe another cupcake?”

He can see how she smiles as she says it, teasing him for his love of sweets. He stops clearing the dirty dishes from the table, sidestepping to approach the counter where she stands. Easy as it would be to get one of the closer little treats, they don’t have quite enough frosting per cake quota to satisfy. The one that rests at the far corner of the platter, that’ll do nicely. He reaches around her, stretching to snag it, the action bringing him within her sphere of space, close enough to be unable to resist. As he leans he ducks his head down, planting a peck at the nape of her neck.

The kitchen smells of roasted duck and potatoes, that scent mixing with the remnants of the perfume she applied this morning, and the tang of sweat that only makes him want her more. After a second she breathes out, tilting her head to allow him better access. He sees her flex her fingers at the edge of the countertop and then she presses herself backward, pushing her ass into his hips.

Tom wakes with a lurch, pretty sure from the way he’s sprawled out on his back and the dryness of his mouth that he’d startled himself awake via snoring. The tang he can detect _could_ reasonably be due to something he’d been drinking the night before. There’s also the faint scent of Max’s mother – the smell that taunts him all the more lately, particularly after vivid dreams. He closes his eyes and tries to focus, tries to block it out.

What had woken him? He begins the standard I-don’t-want-to-get-out-of-bed-quite-yet stretching, only getting so far as to wiggle his shoulders slightly before the weight across his chest shifts of its own accord. The Little Man must have snuck into bed with him again last night.

Resisting the urge to be a little annoyed at the continued invasion of space – at five and change, Max doesn’t do it often, and he’ll probably end up missing them once Max gets a little older – Tom snuffles out a breath as he shifts, lifting himself up to balance on his forearm and elbow and take in the sight of his sleeping son.

Only it isn’t a miniscule version of himself in the bed next to him.

-

_He wants sleep. Needs sleep so badly he can taste it. But every time he tries to put Maximilian to bed… Nothing seems to suit. He’s fed him, making sure the breast milk she’d provided was fixed according to her specifications – all supported by the numerous baby book’s he’d gotten his hands on… Changed him, and then second guessed himself into another diaper change to protect against diaper rash because he thought in a certain light there **might** be a tinge of pink at the edges of the diaper, a reddening of Max’s chunky baby-thighs…_

_He’s consulted the copious notes provided by his mother, both sisters, and numerous other members of the extended family for any hints, as well as the instructions provided by Max’s mother. He’d sooner remove a limb than break down and call her, admitting defeat on this first night with Max after waiting so long for it to finally happen._

_How did other first-time parents do this? Manage when they couldn’t do anything to –_

_Oh. Right. Typically they didn’t suffer through it alone. Which was his own fault. Self-pity fights with indignation as he adjusts the way Max’s baby blanket is bunching between him and his squirming son, causing his shirt to twist and bunch as well._

_“Shhhhh. Shhhh. You’re alright, Little Man. Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s got you.”_

_Hop-bouncing around the house in the dark while holding a baby doesn’t seem wise, but he doesn’t have enough night-lights yet to illuminate each room adequately. He’ll add that to the growing list of things to purchase the next time he dashes to the store. They’ve come to know him there, and he can’t decide if the looks he receives are the we-know-you’re-a-first-time-father looks, or something more sinister… If they’re aware, if they’ve seen the coverage of his debacle of a home life, they at least have the decency not to bring it up in his presence. Of course that could be less for decency, and more for wanting his business._

_That’s the exhaustion talking. That and the fact that he’s starting to get used to fighting all the time with Max’s mother. What’s worse is he’s coming to expect a battle with **everyone** , not just her. He wasn’t like this before. He keeps dipping around the main room, rising up on the balls of his feet before falling flatfooted again, waltzing in slow circuits around the space. She’s done this to him, has him waiting for a sneer or sidelong look, has him preparing a scathing remark versus a cheery comment.  _

_Tom pauses rubbing his fingers back and forth on Max’s impossibly small back, applying a soft series a pats in an attempt to try a different soothing gesture – possibly also put a hard stop to the anger boiling inside him. It certainly won’t help when and if he can ever manage trying to recline somewhere and get some shut-eye._

_Anyway, her anger is just, even if her vehemence leaves him reeling. He was the one that — Max emits an odd little squelching hiccup mid-cry, and Tom is hit by the scent of curdled milk._

_Damn. He’d forgotten to put a spit-up rag on his shoulder. It’s something Max’s mother might have reminded him of as he got up out of bed to tend to their infant son… if things had turned out differently._

_A few quick wipes and Max is good as new, and no longer wailing, but Tom’s blue shirt is a mess. He scans the room, wondering briefly if there’s an odd piece of clean laundry lying about. Anything to keep from having to pause his waltz and dash down the hall to the laundry room, baby in tow._

_No._

_Well he can’t sit around in a spit-up covered shirt… He coos to Max, setting his son down briefly so that he can peel out of the stained and sticky shirt, scooping the baby up again before he has the chance to begin wailing anew._

_“Alright, Little Man. Just let Daddy toss this in the… general direction of the…” He yawns, not caring that the shirt lands short of the entry to the laundry room. He’ll deal with it in the morning. Hell, it’s just a t-shirt._

_Max is still making odd little noises, but it seems exhaustion is catching his son, too. To the bedroom and the bassinet? No. Too many steps to risk with a finally quieting baby._

_Tom circles back around to the sofa, slowly reclining back and resting his nearly asleep son on his bare chest. “This is as good a place as any.” He’s not sure why he’s talking to Max as though he understands a word. “Halfway between the food and the change of diapers. Sound good to you, Max? And once you fall asleep we’ll get you tucked into bed so Daddy can sleep, too.”_

_He gingerly plucks one of the many stray baby books off the coffee table and flips open to a random chapter, reading with the distracted attention a new father ever alert to even the slightest discomfort of their child, the weight of the baby reminds him of something. Of someone. Someone missing from his life. At least in all the good ways…_

-

It’s not the phantom scent of the woman he loves greeting his nose this morning. She really is here with him. In bed with him. Rendered momentarily immobile, Tom stares at her lightly sleeping form, trying to remember exactly _how_ this came to pass.

Dinner. He remembers that. Moderate drinking but not overindulging. That he remembers, too. Another date night care of Izzy. 

Icing. Lots of it, a brilliant blue color, mounded atop small yellow cakes. Max’s mother standing at the counter with her back to him, her neck exposed for the kissing. Falling to temptation and giving into the urge to do just that…

And she hadn’t pushed him away. She’d leaned back into him and urged him to continue.

Five years of war, and slow progress towards civility. Both of them trying and failing to move on. Her illness that had spawned her forgiveness – or at least allowed her to voice it – and the small steps towards finding one another again.

He does his best to keep from jarring the bed as he looks around the room. Her room, not his. That’s good. They’re nowhere near ready for that. Even with changed décor, a new bed, new carpeting, basically a whole overhauling of the master bedroom, that room is still tainted by what happened there.

Her fingers contract, finding the definition of his hipbone and tracing down towards the muscle of his thigh. He wiggles his shoulders and tosses his head, shaking the thoughts of the past away in favor of enjoying this moment while he can.

“Good morning.” She’s half-smiling as he leans down to kiss her. Tom pauses after his lips find hers. He can’t get over it, the smell of her. If he could figure out how to bottle it and keep it forever, he would. Speaking of forever, he could stay like this forever, too. Buried beneath the sheets, their half-clad bodies pressed together?

She nibbles at his lower lip, not seeming to mind his morning breath. Maybe she, too, is taking stock and generally enjoying the moment. She might be sore. Neither of them are as young as they used to be, even with chasing their eternally-energetic son around. She nudges the tip of his nose with hers, her fingers forestalling their not-unnoticed exploration of the edge of his boxers. “What are you thinking, Tom?”

Dimly, he’s aware of the beep of his phone, but not for all the money in the world would he abandon her embrace. Luke, or whomever is trying to get in contact with him this morning, will just have to wait. Still propped up on his right side, he delights in the squeaked gasp she emits that melds into a moan when he pulls his left hand back under the covers, warming his slightly cooled digits on her skin. She might be wearing her typical sleep shirt, but unlike him, she’s not wearing underwear. “That I’m incredibly thankful for your forgiveness…. And that I’m hungry.”

She laughs even as she pushes him away, making him fall back onto his back. “Food. You want food.”

“And you.” Tom remains on his back, but turns his head to look at her. “Always you.”

“Always?”

Another time, another place, the challenge in her voice would be interpreted with darker meaning. It might be a test, might be her baiting him to see if he’ll fall into their old pattern of bickering. He refuses to fall for it. Instead, he decides to show her.

When they’ve finally caught their breath again, Tom remembers the way he woke, and blurts out a question, “I didn’t snore last night, did I?”

She shakes her head as she gets out of bed, her sleep shirt donned again but allowing him the slightest peek of the curve of her bottom. She’s distracted, looking for her underwear, or maybe his shirt. “Hmm? No. I don’t think so?” Pausing, she smiles up at him, “But then I was a little worn out.”

Their private laughter is cut short by the sound of the front door. They both take a moment before belatedly coming to the same realization: “Max!”

“What time is it?” Tom lurches upright in bed, turning towards the nightstand to look at his phone. _WHAP_ – his shirt hits his back, draping over one shoulder as he unlocks his phone to see a missed call from Isabetta. He abandons his phone and pulls his shirt on, noticing that while he was preoccupied with his messages, his boxers had been tossed at him as well. “Izzy called me. Shit. Was it my morning?”

“Does it matter? They’re here. No! Don’t get out of bed. We look….”

Tom nods, almost laughing at the situation. “Like we just…”

She’s laughing too, at least. And turning a lovely light shade of pink. “Exactly.”

Izzy is calling out, her voice echoing down the hallway, “Hey! Sorry about this! Tom isn’t answering so we decided it would be your morning, after all!”

“Mommy! We want waffles! Mommy?”

The thundering of footsteps indicate Max is on a stampede towards the master bedroom. Tom waits in bed as instructed. He could be in the bathroom by now, if that’s what was wanted of him. But she’d told him to stay put. To his surprise, she sits back down on the bed, tucking her knees under her as they wait for their son to erupt through the bedroom doorway.

Max’s footsteps slow only slightly and then the bedroom door swings open. Max takes a moment, tilting his head to one side before a bright grin expands to engulf his features. He launches himself at the bed, voicing his joy as loud as he can, “DADDY! Auntie, I know why we couldn’t find Daddy! He’s HERE!” He lands on the bed, shoes and all, and burrows into Tom’s arms.

He’s so distracted by his son’s clear joy over finding his parents together, that he almost forgets Izzy’s presence. Almost. And then Max’s mother makes a sound and Izzy makes one back. Tom lifts his attention to see Izzy’s expressionless face, her opinions masked – though her eyebrows are raised. He can imagine all manner of opinions held by his once-friend, all expressed by the way she’s looking at the pair of them. Should he say something? He feels like he should say something.

“Hi, Izzy.”

Izzy darts her focus from her best friend back to him, before giving her head a small shake. “C’mon, Monster. Let’s go get the waffle iron out…” Max worms his way out of bed, sprinting past Izzy and talking a mile a minute about all the flavors of syrup and various other toppings one can put on waffles. She doesn’t seem to hear him, though. Her mask slips a bit as she turns, leaning to pull the door closed behind her. “Next time, would it kill either of you to pick up the phone?”

Tom watches the door close, “Next time.” He lifts one eyebrow at he turns to look at the woman still perched on the bed beside him, “Do you think that means she’s warming up to me again, or is that just for your benefit?”  

“Hi, Izzy?” She sighs, almost rolling her eyes at him.

He breaks into a grin, not unlike the one worn by his son a few moments prior, and shrugs. “I don’t know, Babe. It’s just what came out when I opened my mouth.”


End file.
